


The Journal and the Boy (Carl Grimes x Reader)

by ElementalWaters413



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: F/M, carl grimes x reader - Freeform, the walking dead - Freeform, twd, x Reader
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-27
Updated: 2020-03-27
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:41:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 27,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23339317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElementalWaters413/pseuds/ElementalWaters413
Summary: You remember what the world was like before it went to shit: going to school, having friends, and watching TV. How you miss those things. How you miss being ordinary. Now, in a world where the apocalypse is real, you must fight to survive. You've lost all that you care for, lost all that matters, and now you're slowly losing yourself. All that kept you from sanity was those you love and your journal. Within that journal are secrets, deep and dark secrets which one can only uncover through your death. But what happens when a particular male gets close to you? Will you be willing to share those secrets?
Relationships: Carl grimes x reader
Kudos: 16





	1. Chapter 1

I hold my arms out to my sides, stretching them in the air and walking along the yellow line of the road, pretending as though it were a tightrope. I carefully place one foot in front of the other, wobbling slightly from lack of balance due to the limited area of walking space. My holstered gun presses against my thigh, hitting it gently as I walk along the cracked and faded road.

I keep my dagger in my hand and my revolver in its holster, the ammo resting in a satchel upon my belt. My backpack causes my shoulders to ache, the weight of bottles of water having a major impact on my sore back. Recently, I had come across a freshwater river, allowing me to restock my supply at the time I managed to stumble upon it. Now, thanks to that river, my backpack is heavy with rationalized water, and I am thankful to solely luck that I had come across it. My luck with food, however, isn’t as high. I had not a single can in the depths of my bag but instead the bottles of water which I had filled in addition to a few books for my journey and a journal to document my time.

I like to keep a journal because it grants me sanity, giving me assurance that although life sucks ass, I shall persevere just as I always have. It is a goal of mine to never miss an entry so I can ensure that my dates are accurate, reminding me of the many days that I have battled and each individual struggle they brought with them. If I see the amount of days of which I survived, it fuels me with determination to live at least one more, empowering me from within and causing all cowardice and doubt that once existed within my soul to flee into oblivion. Writing has always been a particularly strong passion of mine, so as long as I have it in my life, I’ll always feel like there is still a small reason to live; I believe there is always a cause to keep writing.

My most motivating--and also most painful-- entry happened about two weeks ago, serving as a remarkable reminder of my endurance, suffering, and pain.Allow me to paint a picture of what exactly had happened that day:

“I saw a department store not too far from here” Cory, my boyfriend, said as I walked beside him, my best friend Winnie to my right. At the time, we were on a supply run for food seeing as to how our current supply was running extremely low. We were done to nothing but a few measly cans of black beans back at the camp. All three of us had lost our families, Winnie being an orphan for far longer than Cory and me. Winnie and I were best friends long before the fall, meaning we knew each other quite well. We went to the same school and our entire childhood is a memory which we share together. We did all the stereotypical best friend things: finish each other's sentences, eat one another’s food, have sleepovers--all that jazz. My mother practically served as her own mom, seeing as to she never had one. She was an orphan, left on the streets as a child without a home. We treated Winnie like she was part of the family, and in my mind she was. She was the girl I could share anything with without having to fear she'd tell. I even told her who my biggest crush was!

What broke my heart was how sad she always was. The assholes at school would always tell her the reason she had no parents was because they hated her, abandoning her in a dark alleyway in the midst of a stormy summer’s night. They even bullied me as well, taking advantage of my kindness and incapability to say the word no. They used that side of me to force into doing things I wouldn't ordinarily do. I hated it. My damn conscience made me weak. I was too good of a person to look out for myself as I put others before me. Eventually, I was capable of overcoming my weakness, just as Winnie was capable of overcoming her bullies. We have my mom to thank for that. She gave us the courage and strength within to stand up for ourselves and before we knew it, I could deny people and she could tell her bullies to fuck off. She had done so well that, in fact, they even began to become slightly scared of her. Never had I been so proud. It's no wonder why

It’s no wonder as to why my mother’s death hit us both so hard, especially me. Since Winnie was already an orphan, she knew how it felt to be without a parent. She didn't shed a single tear that day, instead she retreated into her own little shell, shielding herself from the rest of the world with a wall she built up around her heart. Not one ounce of salty water was in her amber orbs. Instead, they were in mine. Winnie has always felt the pain of abandonment as a child, and at first I thought that was what I was feeling too. I thought I was feeling the pain of being an orphan. However, that wasn’t what I was feeling at all. Instead, what I was feeling was the pain of loss. I was feeling the pain of the transition into becoming an orphan, not being one. It's a cruel world out there now, and I hate it far more than the simplicity of mere words can describe. I hated the world with a passion that burned so strong within my heart, it would cause all the demons in hell to cripple into a ball as they burn from the flames, becoming nothing but a pile of charred ash.

Cory, being beside me as I watched my mother be eaten alive, noticed the horror in my eyes. With a grief-stricken soul, I had attempted to run forward and kill every deadhead my eyes had lain sight upon, but he stopped me. He shouted my name and gripped my waist tightly with his hands, yanking me back before I could get myself killed as well. He wrapped his arms around me in a protective hug as I thrashed in his arms, screaming and shouting at him to release me from his hold, but he refused. Instead, he held me there safely, allowing me to release all of my pent up anger upon him instead of upon the deadheads--as I like to call them. I am forever grateful to him for that.

Winnie, on the other hand, simply watched and stared, the rays of the setting sun cryptically illuminating her features. She had built a wall around her heart, shielding her from the pain of the world. How I aspire to do such things--for the world and it's harsh reality would be so much simpler to survive in. There'd be no pain nor loss. The world would simply be a bland and colorless mass of truth and lie, life and death, and good and evil. There'd be no more bullshit in existence. Alas, it is a skill I shall never be able to master, for I am far too passionate to be able to ignore my feelings to such an extremity.

I had an older brother as well, but I am unsure as to what had happened to him. He was up visiting my uncle when this all started, so I was unsure as to what had become of him. I liked to keep my hopes up, telling myself that he was somehow still alive since Uncle Tyler knew how to handle a gun, but that didn’t stop the anxious doubt from seeping through. Then finally, there’s Cory: the third orphan. His mother died when he was young, so he had no memory of her. Unlike me, he was close with his father, and when he died with a bullet to the brain, it was me who had to comfort him. He almost was suicidal. I had no doubt in my mind that he would have been had it not been for me. After all, before the fall, his father was all he had.

And that’s what puts us here now: three orphans walking down a lonely and barren road, with no one but each other to give them comfort and company in the zombie apocalypse.

“Well, I’d personally take Doctor Who over Game of Thrones any day!” Winnie said to Cory, furthering their debate over which show was better. As usual, I was the deciding vote. I generally liked to disobey the system, though.

“What do you think, (Y/N)?” Winnie asked competitively.

“Well, I personally like Sherlock above all us,” I said with a shrug, a smile adorning my features. Cory rolled his eyes and Winnie pouted, both of them upset with me for not ending the quarrel ‘properly’.

“That’s not fair!” Winnie whined.

“Yeah! You can’t just pick a random show. Which one is better: Game of Thrones or Doctor Who?”

I heaved a sigh, “Fine,” I said in exasperation, “(your pick).”

“Yes!” the winner shouts in excitement, followed by a loud shush from my lips, giving him/her a reminder that we couldn’t be loud due to the possibility of attracting a herd.

“Lower your voice!” I whispered, “We don’t want to draw any near.”

Little did I know, it wasn’t the walkers that I should have been worried about that day. Emerging from the bushes came a man with a black eyepatch upon his left eye,three men following behind him holding rather hefty assault rifles. The man with the eyepatch wore a black leather jacket and a white button-up shirt with dark blue jeans. His single eye was brown, matching the color of his hair.

“Well, well, well,” the man began, a tone of amusement in his voice, “What do we have here? Three kids?”

We remained silent.

“How long have you been on the road?” he asked, scanning us up and down. His eyes stopped on me as he made eye contact. “Weeks? Months?”

Winnie and Cory both looked at me to answer his question, knowing I was the most knowledgeable as to how long it had been. I paused.

“Two months,” I said stiffly. The man looked impressed.

“Really now? Well, you three are certainly survivors! I’m the Governor,” he said, sticking out his hand for us to shake. None of us made a move to touch him as he slowly retracted his hand.

“Look,” he began, “I have this town not too far from here. It’s called Woodbury. I think it could really use some people like you. We have food, water, houses, and even electricity. You’re welcome to join us if you want,” he offered, scanning us before his eyes landed on me again. “What do you say?”

I looked the Governor over, deciding whether or not to agree. My instincts was shouting at me to decline, viewing him extremely off-putting. Thus, I kindly declined.declined and attempted to go about our day, but unbeknownst to me, the man was seeking blood and our decline guaranteed us a spot as his new prey. I knew from the beginning that something was wrong about the male, the moment I laid eyes upon him a shiver of ran up my spine. At first, I dismissed it as the chills, but as our experience with the man progressed, I began to understand why I had the shiver. He released a low and dangerous chuckle.

“You three have done well surviving so far. I wouldn’t make the wrong decision now,” his eyes darkened, “either you come back to Woodbury or we make you.”

Those were the only two options we were given: either we secede and join his group at Woodbury or we decline and live through utter hell.

“We’ll take the latter,” I said confidently, trying to hide the quiver in my voice. This man seriously frightened me, and I could tell he knew it too. The Governor frowned deeply, a look of hatred poisoning his eyes. Unsatisfied with our answer, he grabbed me by the hair and had his accomplices grip Winnie by the waist and Cory by the wrists.

“Either you come with us or,” he trailed off, tilting his head to the man who held Winnie as he raised a gun to her temple, “we kill her.”

Panic surged throughout my being and I immediately seceded, ready to be taken away and tortured at will. I refused to allow my friend to die. Winnie, however, disagreed with my method as she instead followed her own notion of spitting in her attacker’s face, enraging her attacker as he grabbed his knife from its sheathe and slit her throat whilst the Governor shot a bullet into her knee. Cory and I watched from the side, screaming our voices hoarse in agony as we struggled against the men’s strong grips. Winnie’s throat gurgled with blood and her knee went limp as she passed away slowly and painfully, twitching uncontrollably whilst we all watched.

I screamed loudly and attempted to yank myself away from the Governor’s grasp around my body using as much force as I could muster. Instead of mourning by her side as I would have wished, I was instead met with my face pressed against the coolness of a black SUV. Tears streamed out of my widened eyes as I stared in horror at the dead corpse of my best friend. I could feel my heart tearing into two. “Winnie!” I screeched desperately, snot dribbling down my nose and tears streaming out of my eyes. It wasn’t a beautiful sight, but could one blame me? I had just lost my best friend for fuck’s sake!

My stomach felt empty, the little remnants churning within it as it moved upwards, threatening to come up out of my mouth. The Governor leaned down, pressing his chest against my back and whispered in my left ear, “You should have said yes,” he murmured, his warm breath sending a shiver down my spine and tickling my face as I winced. I sobbed, giving up my struggle due to the pain of an aching heart, allowing him to do whatever he wished. He smirked at seeing my broken state, running his fingers along my sides.

Cory wriggled in his captor’s grasp, shouting in fury, “Get your fucking hands off of her!” The Governor rolled his eyes. “Oh, shut up. If you continue screaming you’ll only draw more walkers. Or-- perhaps,” he took out a knife, pressing the blade against my soft cheek so it could draw blood, “I’ll just make her scream instead,” he said with a snicker. I released a small whimper, never taking my eyes off of the body of Winnie until that moment as I squeezed my eyes shut.  
Cory’s face transformed from one of anger into one of fear as he quickly seized, relaxing his body. The Governor looked at Cory victoriously, a smug smile plastered to his face as he moved his hands lower, as if taunting the boy.

“Glad you agree. But don’t worry, I’m not gonna do anything to your girlfriend here,” he gripped my hair again and yanked me back up, “that happens after we get to Woodbury.” He pulled me along, using my hair as a leash as I stumbled upon my own feet whilst he dragged me to the car. I never saw how, but Cory somehow managed to free himself after I was pushed into the back of the vehicle, attacking the Governor from behind in an attempt to grant me escape. He yelled at me to run and said that he’d be right behind me, so I did, but when I turned around Cory was gone and I was lost in the woods. I was alone.

That entry was a hard one for me to write and the page was stained with multiple teardrops from my pain as I wrote it. It still agonizes me and as tears prick at the sides of my vision at the memory, I wipe them away with my elbow. I refuse to break down again. I had already done so four times in the past two weeks and I didn’t want to enhance the count up to five. Thus, I keep walking, trying to brighten my mood by humming the tune of my favorite song, Welcome to the Black Parade, to myself as I walk along. It helped slightly.

In contrast to before I remembered, my hands hang loosely and dully at my sides, swinging depressedly whilst I bow my head down and allow my feet to walk along the yellow line. Out of my peripherals, I see the tire of a car come into view. My attention is immediately piqued, the small hope that possibly a can of food might still be in the vehicle fulfilling me. I knock on the window of the driver’s side, trying to gain the attention of any hidden walkers--particularly one hiding beneath of large brown blanket in the passenger’s seat. After waiting a few moments with no response, I take out a lock pick from my bag and pick-lock the car, opening it up within a mere few seconds. It wasn’t my greatest time, but I still did pretty damn well compared to when I first started picking locks.

I rummage through the front seat, searching the glove compartment and smiling as I find a small pocket knife. It was one of higher quality, containing pliers, a nail file, two screwdrivers, a bottle opener, a serrated knife, a smooth knife, a lock pick, and a spring which held it all together. A smirk graces my features and I shove it into the side of my bag, popping open the trunk and grabbing the brown blanket before shuffling to the back seat. There I find multiple bottles of beer and a large duffle bag which I stuff the blanket inside of, ignoring the beer bottles. Well, I think, someone was clearly an alcoholic. It is at that moment when I catch a whiff of a scent similar to that of a lit cigarette, leading me to the conclusion that not only was the owner of the car a drunk, but also a smoker. I gag at the stench, releasing a small cough at the overwhelming aroma and opening up the back door as I slide out of the car. I shake my head to rid my nostrils of the stench.

For a thirteen-year-old, I was pretty clever for my age. I knew exactly what weapons to look for and just what things to hide from. People used to be surprised when I told them my real age considering how mature I was. Back when all this started, I was sitting in the backseat of the car with my mother up front at the driver’s seat and my older brother in the passenger. We were listening to the radio, my brother Lyle on his Nintendo and me solving a rubix cube. I’ve always enjoyed those kinds of things: little brain puzzles to keep your mind churning. I found them interesting, you know? They were something that kept my curiosity at bay.

I was nodding my head to the beat of the music, mouthing the lyrics to the song as we drove when suddenly the station was cut off by an emergency broadcast by the news station. They were saying something along the lines of the dead coming to life, and immediately my attention had been piqued. Was it true? Was the dead really coming back? Are zombies genuinely ruling the earth? Mom turned up the volume, listening to the advice the news caster was suggesting. Her advice was to stock up on all supplies--food, water, medicine, guns, knives, ammo, etc-- and to lock ourselves up indoors. She said to remain as quiet as possible and preserve all energy. Apparently, the CDC was already working on figuring out a cure. Until then, we just had to stay alive.

Of course, we were skeptical at first, but all we needed to convince us was some form of a visual confirmation that her words were indeed true. Lucky for us--or not so lucky, depending how you wish to look at it--we happened to be driving right by the local morgue at that moment. Sure enough, standing right at the entrance eating the flesh of Mr. Anderson, the creepy morgue keeper, was only what I could assume to be a zombie. It’s eyes were clouded over, a milky color replacing the whites of its eyes and its pupils stained a disgusting yellow. Its clothes--dressed in a nice suit--were slightly tattered from the blood which stained it. It’s flesh was rotting, the skin hanging from it’s very bones as it tore at the neck of Mr. Anderson, his blood gushing and spewing into the air.

We could hear his screams resonate into the atmosphere, making its way into our ears as we drove forwards. My eyes were wide at the sight as my hands trembled. Never before had I scene such a gory scene, at least not in real life. On a screen is one thing because you know it’s not real, but in reality, where you know it’s actually happening and your life is on the line, that’s a different story. From that moment on my mind was no longer mature intelligently, but also visually. I had lost my innocence that day upon seeing such a horrid sight, and that day helped evolve me into who I am now: an optimistic sinner and a deadly killer. I decided to call the zombies deadheads. Why I chose that name was unbeknownst me, I just always kind of liked it. I also love rhymes.

I stare into the abyss of the car trunk, reminiscing of my memories that I have from before the fall. A small smile etches itself upon my face as I recall my happiest one, the one where Winnie and I had gone to the amusement park together. I have so many great memories with her. God, I miss her so much. I stare into the void of memories, currently serving as the trunk, as my eyes began to water slightly as I recall all positive happenings I once had. Before I allow myself to fall too deep, I shake my head, ridding myself of my depressive thoughts as I return to reality and continue to scour the trunk of the car. Overall, the only truly useful thing I found was two twin daggers and some bullets, which was actually a pretty great raid.

With my newfound treasure safely stored in my bag, I shut the trunk of the car feeling an overall pleasure throughout my body. You don’t often find that many supplies in one car. As I continue to walk down the street, I spot another car and make my way over to it, stopping mid-step as I look at my surroundings for the first time. My eyes brighten immediately and an open-mouthed smile plasters itself upon my face, joy enveloping my being as a single breathy laugh of glee makes its way out of my mouth. Standing before my very eyes was a house! But not just a single house--no. A whole line of houses run along the side of the street, making up the entirety of a small neighborhood. It’s been weeks since I’ve seen a place like this. I do a small skip of joy, racing up to the first door and removing my revolver from its holster and my dagger from its sheath. Despite how delighted I feel, I refuse to let down my guard.

With gleaming (E/C) orbs, I roughly knock on the door, making sure to draw out any deadheads who might possibly be within the household. I wait a few moments before placing my hand upon the door knob and turning the handle, pushing upon the door to allow it to open. However, it refuses to do so. I furrow my brows, jiggling the knob harder and pushing on the door with my shoulder, yet it still won’t budge. With a frown, I turn away and walk further down the street, raiding other houses and grabbing cans of food which I desperately needed.

As I continue down the road, I begin to hum my song again, softly singing the words under my breath whilst clutching onto the straps of my backpack for security, a small smile upon my face. I close my eyes in blissful serenity, allowing the sound of the birds to reach my ears. 

Smack!

I jump, feeling a large plop upon my head as I release a small yelp, grabbing my revolver from its holster and whipping around to face an attacker. I place my finger on the trigger, preparing to shoot at the body behind me-- but no one is there. I furrow my brows, lowering my guard and putting my gun back in its holster slowly, my stance still tense from the scare and my guard still raised. Reaching up to my head, I feel strange substance upon my skull as my eyes cross in a futile attempt to see the glomp. A grunt escapes my lips at the effort before I give up, releasing a small huff.

A chuckle sounds above me and I grip my revolver again, aiming it up at the roof and seeing a young boy about a year older than me with a large tub of pudding in his hands as he covers his mouth in an attempt to stifle his laughter. He immediately stops chuckling upon seeing my gun as I tilt my head to the side, furrowing my brows in confusion and lowering the revolver slightly, allowing my guard to come down again. The boy stares at me in amusement with gorgeous ice-blue eyes that pierce my soul, allowing its doors to open to the trespasser. He has thick dark brown hair that flows down to just below his ears, curling up at the tips, and messy bangs that cover his forehead. His nose is delicate and his lips are thin and pink whilst small freckles dot along his flushed cheeks. He has a holster on his thigh, is wearing worn blackish-bluish jeans--the knees dirtied with soil--and has on a shirt with a white chest and long navy blue sleeves. He held a large tub in his hands.

I look at him awkwardly. “Um. Hi?”


	2. Chapter 2

“Hi,” he responds, still trying to stifle his laughter but sounding awkward all the same. I remain quiet, staring at the boy.

“What’s on my head?” I ask.

He hesitates, “Nothing,” he says, trailing off. I narrow my eyes ever so slightly, reaching up slowly and grazing my finger along the clump. It’s texture was smooth, almost silky, and gave way to my finger’s touch, consuming it within its mass. I lower my hand from the top of my skull, placing it in front of my eyes and examining the unknown substance. It was a light brown, smelling of chocolate. Is this… pudding? I furrow my brows in befuddlement, looking up at the boy.

“Did you drop pudding on my head?” I ask confusedly, blinking up at him.

“Maybe?” he responds, becoming sheepish in embarrassment.

“So yes?” I ask in confirmation, looking up at him in unamusement. What else should I say to the strange boy with the captivating eyes and the chocolate pudding? He fiddles with his spoon, looking down. “Yes.”

Silence envelops us, the awkwardness yet again permeating the air.

“Why do you have pudding?” I ask innocently, lowering the awkwardness by asking a normal question that heightens the level of informality between us.

“I found it,” he says as he takes another bite.

“Oh.” This time, it is him who fails to respond for a few moments, so I speak up again.

“May I have some?” I ask.

He looks at me skeptically, deciding whether or not he should share something as rare and precious as pudding with a complete stranger like me. I have a feeling he won't, but it can’t hurt to ask, right? I stand still, my arms by my side and my knees locked as I stare up, waiting for his answer.

“Sure,” the boy says, shrugging his shoulders.

“Really?” I say in surprise, joy laced in my tone.

“Yeah. Here, have some.” He takes a large scoop of pudding and dumps it on my head, plopping in the exact same spot as the previous one. My jaw hangs open in surprise as I close my eyes in annoyance, the boy bursting out into laughter above me at my reaction.

“Oh, you son of a bitch!” I shout, taking a large clot of the pudding from off my head and into my palm, the substance oozing between my fingers as I throw it at his chest.

“Hey!” he shouts, more laughter coming out of his mouth as he grabs a spoonful of pudding and flings it at my face. I step back, dodging the pudding attack and causing its destination to recalibrate upon my black converse shoes.

“Ha! You missed!” I mock, sticking out my tongue. A delicious flavor, one of which I hadn’t tasted in years, dances across my taste buds and my eyes widen at the scrumptious taste. Did he just throw it at me?

“Spoke too soon, asshole!” he says, wiping his hands on his shirt in an attempt to rid it of the pudding as he looks at my face of chocolate. He waits for me to respond, but I instead merely stand as I savor the flavor of chocolate upon my tongue, my eyes closed in bliss and my mind ignorant to the surrounding world as it returns to a past full of happy memories

“Holy mother Christ. That’s so good! Where’d you find it?” I ask eagerly, bouncing up and down slightly in excitement.

“In this house,” he responds, tilting his head back slightly in indication of the house of the roof he was sitting upon. It is at this moment when I realize that behind the boy there was an arm of a deadhead reaching out the window

“You know there’s a deadhead behind you, right?” I say, straying off topic momentarily to warn him when he goes back in.

“A deadhead?” he asks, unfamiliar with my term for a zombie.

“You know--a deadhead,” I say, pointing to it, “Zombie, walker, biter; whatever you wanna call it.”

“Oh,” he says, stretching out the word before turning back to me, “anyway, yeah, I know it's there. It took my shoe,” he waves his foot in the air, wiggling his socked toes in to emphasize his point. I laugh in response.

“How about we make a deal?” I say.

“What kind of deal?” he asks curiously.

“If I were to rescue your shoe and return it to you, along with killing that deadhead, will you share your pudding with me?” I offer, quirking a brow and resting a hand on my hip.

“I can share it with you right now if you like!” He shouts, taking a scoop of pudding and waving it over my head threateningly.

I squeak and cover my skull protectively. “No! I mean actually share it with me, dumbass.”

He smiles at my reaction before putting the spoon in his mouth. “We have a deal. Just make sure to bring a spoon on your way up.”

I flash him a thumbs up and rush inside, pulling my dagger out of its sheath as I quickly find a spoon in the barrage of kitchen drawers and race upstairs. I see a door cracked open with books shoved in the door frame that prevented it from closing and hear moans on the other side. I assume this is the right room. Opening the door with my dagger in hand, I walk over to the zombie whose attention is now upon me. He rushes over but I quickly stab his rotting skull in the head, causing him to collapse to the floor after I pull my dagger out of where his dead weight rested. I seek for a spare shoe within the room and quickly find it on the floor, grabbing it as I open the window to its full extent and walk onto the roof, sitting beside the young boy and holding up his shoe to his face.

“Can I have some pudding now?” I ask, a large smile plastered to my face.

He smiles back, a chuckle releasing itself from his throat, “Sure,” he says, placing the tub in between us and grabbing his shoe, putting it upon his own foot and tying the laces. I shove a large spoonful of the savory pudding into my mouth, releasing a satisfying hum at the flavor.

“I don’t regret having pudding on my head at all. Thank you so much for sharing this with me, dude,” I say, closing my eyes in delight.

“Carl,” he says.

I open my eyes, glancing at him. “Pardon?”  
“That’s my name: Carl,” he says, holding out his hand.

I grin in response, placing my own hand in his. “(Y/N),” I say, “It’s nice to meet you!”

He looks down at our hands and smiles, shaking my own “It’s nice to meet you too, (Y/N).”


	3. Chapter 3

We sit in silence, watching the birds fly by as we eat our pudding, savoring the deliciousness of chocolate that dances upon our tongue with each individual bite, the fairies flying by and casting magical spells upon our tastebuds. We gradually eat the pudding until we hear the scraping of a silver spoon against a metal bottom of an empty 112 ounce tub. I release a content sigh, leaning back upon the shingled roof and staring up at the sky with my hands behind my neck as I watch the clouds. Carl glances at me happily, laying back next to me and staring up at the sky as well.  
“This was fun,” I say, observing the different cloud shapes and trying to make figures out of them. “It was, wasn’t it?” he says softly, closing his eyes in relaxation. Silence envelops between us, a foggy cloud of quietness permeating the air with nothing but the chirping of the birds sounding around us. We sit like this for a while in comfortable silence, watching the clouds go by and occasionally pointing out particular ones to tell of the shape that they remind us of. Internally, I was relaxed--the most relaxed I had been in years. Something about Carl makes me feel content. I look over at him momentarily as he describes a cloud, his finger waggling in the air as he points at it. I smile softly, enjoying his presence and the sound of his voice.

His dark hair blows softly in the wind, brushing his forehead and flowing down his shoulders, ruffled slightly from his sheriff’s hat. His eyes, a beautiful deep blue that opened the doors to a soul, are wide with adoration. Never had I thought that one day I’d run into someone as intrigued with the shapes of clouds as I am. His hat rests comfortably upon his skull and his hands lay upon his chest, rising and falling slowly with his breath. He smiles, his white teeth gleaming in the sun’s rays as he looks over at me, still laughing at the words he said.

“Isn’t that funny?” he asks, now chuckling to himself. I smile, looking back up and sighing. “Yeah,” I say contently, having no clue as to what he was referring to but agreeing nonetheless.

“Were you even listening?” he asks, quirking a brow at me.

Awkwardly, I laugh and scratch the back of my neck. “Honestly, no,” I say truthfully, trailing off. He scoffs, rolling his eyes at my aloof behavior.

“Sorry,” I say, sitting up and resting my elbow upon my knee as I place my chin in my palm, “I guess I was just daydreaming about the days before this. It kinda reminds me of my old life,” I say, sighing sadly.

“Yeah,” he says, sitting up next me. Quietness envelopes us again, a comfortableness settling between us with solely the birds providing auditorial aid.

“Well,” I begin, breaking the silence as I stand up, “I better be on my way, but it was really great meeting you,” I say with a smile, grabbing my bag and putting it upon my shoulders. “Maybe one day we’ll see each other again,” I say, flashing him a brief smile and walking over to the window as I open it. I walk towards the door that leads to the hallway and stairwell.

I hear shuffling behind me and a small “ow” followed up by Carl’s voice.

“Wait!” he says, scrambling through the window behind me in an attempt to catch up to my form. I turn around, looking at Carl as he trots beside me with a small frown etched upon his face. “Where are you going?” he asks, walking beside me to the bedroom door.

I shrug. “Not really sure, to be honest. I don’t have a camp so I just kinda wander around by myself,” I begin, opening the door and walking through its frame, “It gets lonely but--you know--that’s life. A lonely piece of shit.” I say, flashing him a toothy smile and a thumbs-up as I walk down the stairs with Carl trailing behind me. Somehow, in this screwed up world, I manage to keep myself joyful despite the hell surrounding me. I tend to blame it on my spunk and spontaneity that somehow always manages to develop a gleeful aura around my being, spreading throughout others like a disease. Although, disregarding the joy I’m capable of maintaining, being by myself does become extremely lonesome sometimes. I’ve spent days upon days by myself with nothing but my own body and thoughts to give me warmth and company throughout the cold and unforgiving night. Living a lifestyle like that does tend to become boring.

Deeper down, in my subconscious--a place that I rarely like to venture upon due to its negativity--it makes me feel alone, like all that I once loved has abandoned me and now it's just me against the world. What else can I think when I’m all alone other than doubt and self-loathe? It’s a dark road my mind likes to travel down and I hate it. Although I don’t truly believe it, it’s even somewhat become my outlook on life: that no matter what one does, there’s no escaping the cruelty of reality. Beneath all my joy, there’s an underlying sadness that few can uphold--not even myself can manage to care for it like a mother could. I miss my mom. I miss my friends. I miss everyone. The only people who kept me happy were Winnie and Cory, but just like my parents they’re gone and I’m left in the dust.

Everyone I loved has left me and now I’m alone in the world with nothing to drive me forward other than my own determination, which thankfully I have a lot of. It’s solely me against the world--no one else--because if you love someone, then they’re bound to die, leaving you in your lonesome in a harsh and vast world with little to no idea what to do with yourself. Thus, I’ve given up on forming bonds. I act as though all is okay but deep down, I’m scared. Hell--I’m terrified. I know that just like everyone else, I’m slowly dying. I haven’t accomplished a single thing in my life to improve the world. It is the determination to do this that helps drive me.

I’m no worse than the dead themselves. I’m just as heartless and cruel as the living who rape, torture, and kill. I’ve killed and I’ve sinned. The weight upon my shoulders is not due to the backpack that I carry but rather the sins I have committed, weighing down on me like an anvil as it threatens to crush my soul’s happiness. The only way I can manage the insanity and dread flowing through my mind is through joyful ignorance. I simply need to forget about the shit I’ve endured and I’m happy. Although, that’s not saying that it isn’t hard. It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. I hate to say it, but killing others is easy--both physically and metaphorically. Killing their souls, crushing them from within to where they feel like worthless beings on the face of the earth, is just as simple bringing someone back up from the floor--if not that, than easier.

It’s easy to kill. All one needs to do is grab a gun and pull the trigger, then bam! Job complete. I remember it all perfectly. Every murder I’ve committed, I can watch and recall like a camera in the back of my mind. Not only does this journal I have keep me strong, but it allows me to remember all the horrible things I’ve done. It makes and breaks me in every way possible.

Of course, that’s just my depressive side talking. I like to believe I’m genuinely happy but I have two sides of myself. I can’t separate the dichotomy from who I really am, and that’s the struggle of living my life. I don’t know who I am anymore. Nor have I for the past few years. Before the fall, I had general idea of who I was inside and out--but now? I have no clue. Am I just another soul lost in the wind? It’s so confusing knowing my true self. Venturing into my subconscious is a confusing trek filled with twists and turns. It has cloudy skies that pour rain down upon the earth, drenching all that is and once was with water and gloom. But then there are the sides that are bright with sunlight, rays of warmth shedding down upon the surface and basking all that is in existence with joy. Never have these two sides crossed and never have I been able to distinguish which is truly me.

I chuckle to myself in pity, looking down as I place my feet upon the bottom floor, murmuring to myself, “A lonely piece of shit,” I repeat.

Carl frowns. “You’re alone?” he asks as I walk through the kitchen. I shake my head, ridding myself of my negative thoughts as I feign happiness, allowing it to return to my being. The only way to gain joy back is by acting like I have it or I’ll merely burrow myself into a depressive hole, clawing at the walls in an attempt of escape but truly wanting none at all.

“Yep!” I say, placing my hand upon the doorknob, praying that he doesn’t ask me how I came to be alone. “But I get by,” I say, “I'm pretty handy with a knife.” I take out a black dagger, the hilt wrapped in dark fuchsia leather with my name engraved in it. I twirl it around my fingers in a fashion of showing off.

“How long have you been alone?” he asks

“About three months,” I say as I pause, “Well, technically, ninety-six days--but who’s counting?” I say with a chuckle, walking down the street with a bounce in my step as more pleasurable thoughts swirl around in my mind. My journal has always been good at helping me keep track of time--hence one of the many reasons why I love it so much. I’ve always been extremely picky with people needing to be accurate with the time, so I loved it.

“What happened to you? Like, why are you alone now?” he asks.  
My heartdrops; there’s the question I’ve been dreading. I freeze in my tracks, the smile on my face immediately falling as I recall the horrendous memory. All joy that was beginning to return to me drops as my eyes stare out at the road ahead, the rest of the world becoming an indecipherable black and white blur. My hands tremble slightly at the memory, the one I oh-so wished he wouldn’t force me to recall--the one I worked so hard to block out but always manage to remember despite my futile attempts.

“(Y/N)?” Carl asks. I continue to stare into the great unknown of the abyss, now sucked into the darkness of my mind due to the traumatizing events I had recollected.

“(Y/N)!” Carl shouts, but I can’t hear him, for I am too preoccupied within my mind. Nonetheless, I shake my head, returning from my dark awakened slumber. “Are you okay?” he asks, concern laced in his tone as he stares at me.

“Yeah. I’m fine. Sorry,” I say, walking forward.

“So...Why are you alone?” he asks again.

“Let’s leave that story for another day,” I say curtly, walking off the road and into the forest as I shove my dagger into its sheathe, brushing the branches away from my face whilst I walk.

“But we won’t see each other again and I’m curious,” he says, pushing the branches that fell back into place due to my lack of holding them from him.

“Well then I guess you won’t hear it,” I say.  
Carl frowned at my suddenly rude state. “You know,” he began, “I have a camp. I’m sure they wouldn’t mind just one more person. You won’t have to be alone anymore-- we have more people our age. It’s at a nearby prison,” he said.

“Nah,” I say, waving my hand dismissively, “I don’t want to be a burden--I enjoy being on my own. And besides,” I say, turning around with a smile and pulling out my journal and waving it in his face, “I have my journal to keep me company. All my previous friends are in here with me,” I smile, looking down at it affectionately as I tap on it.

Carl gives me an odd look, clearly not understanding my cause for keeping a journal. Very few do, even Cory was confused about it. I guess I’ll be the only one in existence who understands the purpose of a journal in the apocalypse.

“But what about the living? All I need to do is ask you three questions,” he says, trying to persuade me into going with him.

I roll my eyes, “What are the questions?” I ask, releasing a sigh and seceding to his persistence. Carl’s face suddenly brightens as his eyes widen with joy.

“How many walkers have you killed?” he asks. For some odd reason, I imagine him whipping out a notepad to record my answer as he asks the question, but of course he doesn’t.  
Opening my journal to the most recent entry, I scan the page for the number of walkers I had killed and add up the total from the amount in the book and the amount I had killed today.

“3,463 deadheads,” I say, slamming the journal shut. He blinks at me bluntly, furrowing his brows at me as if I were crazy.

“What?” I say, acting as though it were perfectly sane to know the exact number of deadheads I had killed, “I told you I record everything in here,” I say as I knock on the journal.

“Okay,” he continues, “How many people have you killed?”  
I freeze, stuttering slightly over my words. “Does not helping someone count as a kill or do you mean actually genuinely killing someone with a knife or gun?”

Carl looked at me oddly, before gesturing to me that he meant the latter.

I look down at my feet. “Six,” I say, awaiting for the smile upon Carl’s face to be replaced with a visage of disgusted horror. Shame envelops my being, an aura of putrefying hatred for myself surrounding me. 

“Why?” he asks, leaning forward slightly to hear my answer. He didn’t sound disgusted nor ashamed, merely curious.

I twiddle my thumbs, not once looking up as I pick at my dirt and blood-encrusted nails. “Um,” I begin, “one asked me to, three tried to kill me, one was a traitor, and the last one--” I hesitate before finishing my sentence “--the last one I had a mental breakdown.” Carl’s lack of response causes me to flinch. “I didn’t mean to kill him, but he was an asshole anyway. He threatened me and I broke down,” I say as I rub my arm up and down, trailing off with my eyes trained upon the forest floor, a bubble of shame enveloping my being as I remember the murders I’ve committed.

“What kind of breakdown?” he says in a soft and comforting tone.

“That’s another story for another day,” I say, my lips pursed.

I shake my head, ridding myself of my thoughts. “Anyway!” I say sickeningly cheerfully, “Am I accepted into your camp?” Carl narrows his eyes in curious suspicion, wondering why I often change moods so quickly--generally back to joyful. I disregard his curiosity--most people tend to wonder the exact same thing, but I never tell them the reasons why.

“Yep,” He says, a smile etched upon his graceful face, “Come on; I’ll show you the way there but--again--don’t tell my dad I was here. Just say I found you in the woods, okay?”  
“Alright,” I say with a nod, “but how do we explain the pudding on my head and on your shirt?”

He pauses, pondering the thought for a few moments before releasing a sigh and a shrug, “I’m not sure. I guess we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.”

I chuckle, agreeing to his words and following him through the undergrowth to the place he calls the prison.


	4. Chapter 4

Carl dashes through the labyrinth of trees to his camp, his palm gripped tightly around my wrist as branches fly by my face. His feet pound upon the earth in loud yet rhythmic thumps, crunching the dead leaves strewn across the forest floor as we race over them. The leaves falling from the trees cling to my frizzed hair, sticking to it like lint to a piece of cloth. The wind blows roughly in my face as we run and I release a breathy laugh, enjoying the feeling of freedom I experience as he pulls me along. Carl turns around to look at me with a large smile etched upon his gracious features and I smile back, suddenly gaining a limitless supply of unrequited energy that begs me to release it.

I flash a look of determination at him, abruptly bounding forward and causing him to stumble upon his own two feet as I pass, now dragging him along with me. He laughs again as I close my eyes, feeling the wind blow in my face as my hair flies behind me, cascading elegantly down my shoulders and into the air (or if your hair is short, simply brushing back in the wind). My arms brush against my sides as I move them back and forth whilst I run, my legs shifting from front to back in a steady well-timed pace. Sparks of energy race down my spine as my fingers twitch, shocks of metaphorical electricity striking out of my ten digits and diffusing into the air. My brain buzzes to life, running a million miles a minute as thoughts and ideas race by speedily, making an elated sensation consume my stomach.

The laces of my sneakers flick my ankles, but I do not care--for I am too busy enjoying the feeling of being free and forgetting the problems of the world. Joy consumes my being, surging throughout my body from the inside-out and creating an aura of utter joy around my form, diminishing the sins I had committed and replacing it with enlightenment. It feels as though I am floating on air, my feet that once touched the ground now gliding away with the breeze on a light nothingness.

The hand wrapped around my wrist releases and a body bounds up next to me, belonging to that of Carl, the same open-mouthed smile I wear upon my face plastered upon his. I glance over at him, my eyes bright with glee and wonder as he looks back at me, a smirk forming at his lips as he dashes ahead at me.

“Race you there!” he shouts as he sprints, almost running into a tree.

I laugh, “Watch the path, Carl!”

He stuck his tongue out at me, continuing to dash forward with me following close behind. Tragically, I stumble upon a tree root and topple to the floor, letting out a loud gasp as I crash downward.

“I’m gonna win!” he shouts back, unaware of my current falling situation. I disregard the ongoing race, now more concerned with my skin and bones. I check my vitals, looking to see if there was any blood oozing out of my (s/c) skin. I have a few small cuts here and there, but nothing that would arise concern. At a lack of my response, Carl turns around, the smile on his face slowly falling as he gradually stops. “You okay?” he asks.

I look up from examining my elbow, standing up fully and brushing myself off as Carl walks a few steps towards me, making sure to maintain his distance in the event that I shoot up from my spot and continue the paused race.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” I say, looking back up and flashing him a smile of reassurance, walking forwards next to him and elbowing him. “So who won?” I ask, wiggling my brows.

“Me, duh,” he says, rolling his eyes playfully.

“What do you mean you? I fell!” I say, “I had a disadvantage.”

“You fell when I was still ahead of you. That’s why I win,” he smirked victoriously whilst I frown. “Now come on, we’re almost there,” he says, walking forward as I trail behind, grumbling under my breath, “I still had a chance of winning, though,” I say with a huff. Carl chuckles silently and gives me a glance, “Now don’t be a sore loser,” he says.

“I’m not being a sore loser. I’m merely complaining about how I didn’t win,” I corrected, despite truly knowing they were the exact same thing.

“Whatever you say,” he says, putting his hands up in mock surrender as he exits the barrage of trees and emerges into a vast clearing of long and overgrown grass, a few stray deadheads strolling through the wisps. In the distance, I see a large building being what I assume is the prison. The entire building seems to be encircled by a large fence decorated with barbed wire along the top to prevent previous prisoners from escape. From what I can tell, there are two fences: an inner one and an outer one. Between the two there is a pathway for what was probably the guards, the outer fence providing aid for keeping people out and the inner fence providing aid for keeping people in.

The entrance, however, seemed to be slightly lower compared to the rest of the perimeter and served as a gateway to the rest of the world. From what I can see, there is only one person manning the entrance and they seem to be carrying a crossbow. Whether it is a he or a she is unbeknownst to me. A dirt road led to the gateway, the very first few feet away from it lined with metallic spikes that protruded from the ground and had a few deadheads stuck in them.

The building itself seemed to be quite large with, according to Carl, multiple cell blocks and, based upon my analysis on the window placement, two floors. There seemed to be about five or six watchtowers scattered throughout the jail. My assumption is that they hopefully use those towers to their advantage to shoot down walkers and harmful people.

I stare in astonishment at the camp, surprised by its massive size and more than grateful for being provided such a place for a home. It almost made me want to cry. The key word in that sentence: almost. I have been without social interaction ,for sixteen days and I had been without a camp for four months. If only Carl understood how thankful I am for his gesture.

“Pretty big, huh?” he asks as he stares at me in amusement, his hands tucked away in his pockets and his posture slouched back in a relaxed state. I nod quietly, continuing to stare at the building. We stand like this for a while, Carl and I next to each other in silence as I keep my eyes trained on the building and his up at the sky with the occasional glance towards me.

“Is the person at the gate a boy or a girl?” I ask, breaking the quietness shared between us.

Carl looks over towards the gate, his face immediately plastering with a look of recognition as he spots the person and their crossbow. “Oh, him? That’s Daryl. He’s pretty cool. Although, I like Michonne more,” he says with a shrug. A smile suddenly lit up his face, “She always brings me comics from her runs. I should show them to you sometime!”he says with excitement.

“Alright,” I say. Before the fall, I used to read books quite often, my favorite novel being (Y/F/B) (Your favorite book). A long time ago, back before the world went to shit, I remember walking into a comic book store whilst searching for a figurine. I picked one up, trying to read it in an attempt to begin some of the best comic series, but I could never absorb myself in them due to the lack of detail. Thus, I decided to stick to novels rather than comic books. However, seeing Carl so excited to show me something of his that he was genuinely proud of made me willing to give it another shot.

I smiled at thinking of being able to read comics with another individual. Although I dislike comics, the idea of being able to discuss with another living and breathing human makes me ecstatic.

Abruptly, my ecstasy shatters into shards as I remember I will be meeting a load of new people. I was never great with crowds, I would always feel claustrophobic and retract myself into my own personal shell that was tucked safely away from the rest of the world.

“Are your people nice?” I ask nervously, fiddling with the amethyst pendant of my necklace which Cory had given me back when we were raiding a jewelry store, the crystal feeling smooth yet rough in my fingers. Carl seems to notice my distress as he places a calming hand on my shoulder. “You'll be fine,” he says, a small smile gracing his features, “The people here come from a place called Woodbury. They’re nice, I promise.”

I whip my head to the side and narrow my eyes at Carl, “Woodbury?” I ask, “As in the town of The Governor?”

Carl’s face had a look of surprise upon it. “You know The Governor?” he asks, soundly slightly skeptical.  
“Of course I know the damn Governor!” I seethe, “I hate him more than I hate deadheads. I still don't know if Cory is alive. I still feel pain after Winnie. I still feel the trauma of what he did inside my mind!”

Carl seems to ignore the two names as a look of anger crosses his face, “Did he try to hurt you?” he asks, his hands balling into fists. I glance down at his hands before looking into the distance again, refusing to make eye contact with another human whilst discussing the matter. I allow my walls to begin to build again. No tears choose to make their way up to my eyes as I am reminded of Winnie’s horrid death, showing just how cold I am on the matter. Carl stares at me, awaiting my confirmation, but I refuse to give it to him.

“Like I said,” I begin, turning to look him in the eyes, “it’s a story for another day,” and with that, I walk forward towards the prison, Carl watching me as I leave.


	5. Chapter 5

Idiot! I think to myself, shaking my head in disgust. You worthless piece of shit! You swore you’d never speak of the event again. You swore you’d stay strong! Yet here you are, telling your tale in some bullshitty way to gain pity. Pathetic!

I growl to myself, shaking my head in a futile attempt to rid myself of my depressive thoughts. My thoughts are like a cage, locked away behind a steel door. Desperately, I try to shut that same door within my brain, scouring high and low within the depths of my mind and its subconscious for the hidden key which keeps them locked tightly away in a closet at the end of a dark and daunting hallway. Helplessly, I struggle to keep the door shut, pressing my shoulder against the enduring steel as I use all my mustered up strength as I strain and push to the best of my abilities. Yet, it is to no avail. The thoughts, serving as horrific monsters which terrorize my soul, escape from their cage, swarming around my figmented and ghastly body as I curl into a ball, using my hands to protect my head from the verbal beatings which reach my ears. Tragically, it is impossible for one to have an avoidance of sound. The thoughts scream at me, laughing at my unspeakable pain as I writhe around upon the cold hard floor.

I retract myself from my mind and attempt to return to reality, hoping that somehow it’ll force the voices to leave me alone. To my dismal, it only further encourages them. Frustration bubbles up within my chest, my hands balling into fists at my incapability of withstanding the voices. My defenses had failed me. With a heavy heart, I secede, allowing the depression and self-loathe to consume me.

For years, I’ve masked my agony with a falsified smile that I displayed for others, despite knowing deep down that happiness is nothing more than an act with I as its puppet. What is the point of even trying to live anymore if all that is in existence is pain? What is the point of trying to survive if, in the end, all I will become is a corpse which feasts upon the flesh of others, murdering every individual I find, further stripping them of their old selves. In reality, I am dying. Everyone is dying. Every individual second that I’m alive, my life is ticking away before my very eyes, slowly diminishing into the past as it counts down the days I have left to live. Fate watches upon me, smirking to herself as she sits upon her nest of souls which she collected to construct her castle. I’ve known ever since the beginning that my time was slowly running out, and I still am unaware as to how much time I have left.

I had always gone against Fate, using her evil ways of death to my advantage by trying to get as much done in the time I had left. I used it to propel me forward, yet now all it is doing is holding me back, and I have no way of stopping it. What is the point of living if all that I am living for is dead? What is the point of living if all that I have lived for is dead because of me? It is my fault my mother is dead. It is my fault my best friend is dead. Like a spineless wimp, I allowed cowardice to consume me just before their demise. I watched them die slowly before my eyes. I knew the deadhead was coming towards her neck and I knew the man was going to slit her throat, yet I did nothing. I was too frozen with fear as time seemed to stop around me--a time which remains an immeasurable entity impossible of tackling. It decided to envelop me in its trap, allowing all of existence other than myself to move, preventing me from rescuing my mother. I was too weak to withstand its hold.

It is my fault my best friend is dead. It is my fault my boyfriend is dead. It is my fault that I am alone. God, how I hate myself sometimes. It’s so confusing within my mind. I don’t understand who I am anymore. What is good and what is bad? What is right and what is wrong? In this world, is there even a difference? The sins I had committed I had done to survive, but is that a valid excuse for the things I had done? Are my morals still intact?

I sigh in frustration, looking up from the ground and towards the prison, my mind back in reality but my heart still entrapped in the void. It is far closer now compared to when I last looked up, and the man whom Carl had referred to as Daryl had seemed to notice us, seeing as to how his eyes were constantly trained on my form  
“Come on,” Carl says, transitioning from a walk to a jog as he moves in front of me, dodging the arms of an occasional deadhead as he holds his sheriff’s hat upon his head. Hesitantly, I jog up next to him, sticking fairly close to his side in fear that Daryl may attack me. His facial features and expressions told me that he wasn't the nicest person--which isn't bad. In this world, being nice is being dead. It's a depressing truth to come to terms with, but you get used to it.

As we near, Daryl moves to open the gate, and I can see his features far more clearly. He seems to be around the age of his early to mid forties with thin, dark brown hair that reach to his neck and has bangs that cover his eyes. His nose is pointed, the tip round and spherical like a bulb. From what I could make out of his eyes, they were small and narrow, black bags lining underneath them as if he was allergic to something in the air. He has a dark gray and light brown goatee with stubble for a beard, along with a mole to the right of his upper lip. He is tanned, wearing a black collared shirt with a leather jacket, both of which are sleeveless. He seemed brutile around the edges, to say the least. I could tell he is, or at least was once, a redneck biker. I am unsure as to how much of that old self still remains within him.

We walk inside the gate, Daryl shutting it forcefully behind us before he turns around and glowers down at me, narrowing his eyes skeptically.

“Carl,” he begins, looking towards the young boy. His voice was rough and raspy, a country accent laced in his demanding tone. “Who's this? And where the hell have you been?”

Carl frowns. “I just went for a walk. I swear to god, it's like you guys can't trust me because I'm younger than you,” he says in a calm yet defensive tone. Daryl raises a brow at Carl, questioning his sudden outburst of frustration.

Carl sighs, turning towards me with defeat, “This is (Y/N),” he says, indicating towards me with a flick of his hand. “I found her when I was wandering around. She says she's really good with a knife.”

Daryl ignores me and goes back to the topic Carl is avoiding, “Why were you outside alone?” he asks pointedly, crossing his arms over his chest.

“I'm not a kid anymore, Daryl.”

“I know you're not. But you can't just be going out by yourself. It's dangerous and I'll get in trouble with your old man.”

“Well then my dad needs to understand I can take care of myself! I know what I'm doing,” he says with a frown, trying to maintain his temper. It's easy for me to determine that he and his father have dilemmas regarding their relationship.

“I know you do,” Daryl says, “but you’re gonna have to talk to Rick about that.”

Carl sighs in frustration as Daryl merely sends him an apologetic look with a shrug, allowing silence to permeate the air for a few moments.

“Did you ask her the questions?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Carl grunts, unfolding his arms as he returns to his normal state.

“Then it’s just up to your dad. She can stay where we kept Michonne when she first arrived until you find him. Make sure you lock it, though.”

Not wanting to upset the man seeing as to how I did not wish for him to revoke Carl’s offer of hospitality, I do not objectify. Instead, I allow a small grin to make its way onto my face as a sign of gratitude. Daryl’s skillful eyes remain trained upon me, searching my eyes for any aspect of evil that may be hidden within them, although the fact that that is why his eyes are upon me is unknown to me. My smile slowly fades due to his lack of acknowledgement as Carl begins to drag me to the cell of which I will be held in. As we pass the man with the crossbow, I turn my head around to face him, whispering two small and simple words that I have yet to say in a long, long time. They are words which I had forgotten the importance of, the meaning once seeming so minuscule to the point of where I dismissed them. Never had I thought those two words could hold such a significant and powerful hope in my heart.

“Thank you.”


	6. Chapter 6

I sit cross-legged with my hands resting calmly in my lap within a large and spacious cell, observing my surroundings as I allow my mind to wander. The room is fairly large and has a few tables connected to benches scattered about the area. I notice a few specks of blood upon one of them but dismiss it, viewing it as an insignificant detail in the grand scheme of the prison. Likelihood has it that the blood belongs to a currently deceased deadhead. Well… more deceased? You know what I mean. Or should I say: I know what I mean. Haha! I love my lame jokes that no one else understands. They always bring me a small smile, even right now. Tragically, the joy always fades.

With a sigh, I look down at my hands, rubbing away the dried blood and picking at my nails. Biting and picking my nails and skin has always been a rather bad habit of mine that I was and still am incapable of altering. Oh well. It’s just a bit of blood, right? Nowadays, that’s everywhere, so a tad bit of blood from picking my nails can’t be that bad. I’ve dealt with so many different forms of agony that the pain that once existed when I bit my nails is no longer present. I’ve been numbed to it. Truthfully, I’m thankful for that. I have so many scars on my body that it’s my own little way of causing pain to help me feel the thrill of every day. It sounds stupid, but what can I say? I guess it's a form of self-diagnosing for me.

Pulling me away from my thoughts, the sound of a key sliding into the lock of a cell is heard as I turn around, seeing the man whom I assume to be Carl’s father, Rick. The man has a scruffy grey beard in addition to curly, light brown hair matted with sweat, making it appear dark and wet. His nose is bulbous whilst his hair is brushed off of his forehead, pushed behind his ears gently. He seems fairly well-groomed for the apocalyptic world, as well as his son whom stands behind him staring at me. Rick’s eyes are a light-greyish color, far more dull than his son’s piercing blue eyes. The two of them stare at me, Carl sending me a small smile as he trails behind his father who ensures that his son is safely pushed behind him. Unlike Carl (who evidently disapproves of his father’s protectiveness), I find Rick’s protectiveness sweet. How I miss having somebody like that.

“(Y/N)?” Rick asks cautiously, ensuring he keeps his distance. Carl merely rolls his eyes.

“That’s my name,” I say, flashing him a closed-mouth smile

Immediately, I can tell my response was too cheery for his liking. The man glowers down at me, scanning my body with his grayish-blue eyes. “Where did you come from?” he asks, curiosity laced in his tone and skepticism sealed in his eyes.

“Depends,” I say, subtly teasing the male for shits and giggles, “Before or after?”

“After,” Rick growls, his patience wearing thin. This man is most definitely not in the best of moods.

“Well,” I start, “where do I begin? It all started long ago, about a couple of years, when I was just starting middle school,” I say, purposefully dragging along my response to rile him up. “I was in (favorite class), one of my favorite classes of the day, when suddenly, I was called by the office to be picked up early,” I say.

“I was surprised to say the very least, seeing as to how I’m never picked up early unless for a doctor appointment.” I observe Rick’s features beginning to morph

He releases a deep-seated sigh, mumbling under his breath. I send the man a harsh glare, narrowing my eyes into slits during the process. How rude of him to interrupt my story! Honestly, I cannot believe the audacity that this male has.

“Excuse you, but I was trying to answer your question. There was absolutely no need for you to interrupt my superb storytelling,” I say with a huff, crossing my arms.

He releases another sigh. “God, I'm not in the mood for this right now.”

“Mood for what? Interviewing me? Sorry I'm such a pain in the ass. Being talkative is in my nature,” I say as I flash him a bitter-sweet smile. Rick remains silent.

“Lucky for you,” I continue, “I don't feel like going into the depths of my personal narrative, so I'll spare you the details and provide you with this: my name is (Y/N) (Y/L/N). I am fourteen years old. I lived in Florida with my mother, father, and brother. Of them, I am the only one left. I'm alone--have been for the past eight weeks. So if you're worried about some sort of ambush made to rescue me, I'm gonna tell you to not bet your lives on it. Those who were willing to save me are gone,” I say, leaning back on my hands and looking him in the eyes. Although I don’t want the pity, I want to be seen as strong. All pity will do is remind me of my loss. However, if I don’t get the pity, I may not survive. I may be sent back out. One can only maintain their humanity and their sanity for so long, and I’ve noticed over the years and months that mine is slowly draining. I desperately need to stay if I have any hope of having some aspect from my previous self still within me. I want so desperately to have a place to call home.

“You’re alone?” he asks, sounding fairly impressed yet skeptical.

“Yep. That’s what I said,” I say. “If you think I’m lying, then go ahead. Dispose of me. It’ll be you who loses more of your humanity, not me. If I die, that sin will be on your conscience, not mine.”

“I never said I’d kill you,” he says firmly, looking over to the side with a distant gaze representing thought. He runs his fingers through his hair, his mouth slightly agape as his tongue skims his upper lip to moisten them from their dryness.

“Okay, look. You seem like a good kid--you do. But even though we need strong people like you, you’ll just become another liability. But that doesn’t mean you can’t stay. I’m willing to allow you asylum within our camp, but you will be locked up in here for a while. Understood?”

I nod.

Behind him, I notice Carl with a frown upon his face, his brows furrowed in thought as he stares at his father. I am unsure as to what has upset him, but I can tell it has something to do with Rick. I can’t help but to wonder why Carl dislikes his father. I note to myself to ask him about it later. However, there is a small nagging within my mind telling me to let go of the matter, seeing it as rude to ask about his personal information after knowing him for less than a measly day. Tragically, my curiosity is a very powerful thing, being one of the most prevalent characteristics within my being.

I throw the question to the back of my mind with the many other questions I had dismissed. I had finally made a friend, and no way in hell am I going to ruin a friendly relationship with something as frivolous as a stupid question. I’ll have to ask him about it when--or if--we get closer. After all, I refused to tell him my secret, and I have absolutely no right to ask him for his since I failed to share mine. It would simply be disrespectful. He owes me nothing, and therefore I cannot ask him of something he may not wish to be asked.

So deep in thought, I notice that I had begun to play with the ring upon my finger, twisting and turning it in opposite directions as I fiddle. The ring is important to me, one of the very few items left that has sentimental value. It symbolizes the relationship between my mother and I before she died. We had matching ones, and the fact that she is still wearing it after her death tends to cause a smile smile to blossom upon my face, as tragic and morbid as the idea may be. It hurts to know that she’s wearing it as a deadhead--a mindless shell that will never be my mother--but to know that her body will forever have it upon her to never be removed brings joy to my being. It shows that our relationship is eternal.

The ring is made of sterling silver, a clear gem the shape of a squarish-diamond about the size of a pinkie finger’s nail placed in the center. At each vertice, a small silver stud is existent, holding the gem to the actual ring. Surrounding the gem are four petal-like extensions, extending about a centimeter away from each of the four vertices, each meeting up with one another at the middle of the segments. The petals have a black background, the edges lined with dotted silver. Each petal has four rhinestones, two large ones and two small ones. The large ones lay closest to the gem on the two opposing sides of the petal whilst the smaller rhinestones lay just above it, making up the tip.

I am so busy within my thoughts and with the studying of my ring that I fail to notice Rick and Carl staring at me expectantly. Now drawn away from my mind, I look up at their gaze. Had Rick asked me a question? Is he expecting me to answer? I must have been so consumed within my brain that I had zoned out of reality and been absorbed into my subconscious. What do I do? Do I tell him I had not been listening?

“Uh,” I say with a chuckle, fiddling with my ring more, “I’m sorry, but can you repeat that? I sort of zoned out..”

Carl runs his hand over his face quietly, shaking his head back and forth at my response. Rick releases a sigh, clearly feeling aggravation towards me. “I said,” he begins with a pause, emphasizing the word ‘said’, “Are you okay with that?”

“Can you please specify what I should be okay with?” I ask, resisting the urge to shrink down in embarrassment.

“Were you even listening to a word I had said?” Rick asks, impatience laced in his loud tone.

“I, uh--” I begin.

“It was rhetorical,” Rick said, “If--and I mean if--I ever do allow you to wander these halls freely, you need to know that it will cost you. You can’t just live here without giving something back. You’ll go on runs, you’ll farm for food, you’ll man the gates, and you’ll watch from the watchtower. No one here stays unless they give back.”

I nod again at his words.

“Good. Then you’ll stay here for a few days until you prove yourself. I’m not letting some strange girl into the cell blocks without first keeping an eye on her.”

“I understand,” I say genuinely, completely comprehending as to why he refuses to to allow me to wander around alone. If you get careless about the people you let in, you die. Rick seems to know that, and I’m not going to be angry at a man for only wanting to ensure his family and friends stay safe. I’d do the same thing if I were him.

“Now, before I go, I have three questions to ask you before I go,” Rick said

“Dad, I told you I already--” Carl is cut off by his father’s glare and he quickly shuts his mouth, rolling his eyes and crossing his arms.

I quirk a brow, cocking my head at Carl and Rick’s little, yet intense, quarrel “Fire away,” I say, leaning back against the seat of the bench.

“How many walkers have you killed?”

“3,463, if I remember correctly,” I answered.

“How many people have you killed?” Rick asks.

I turn my head away, refusing to make eye contact again, “Four.”

“Why?”

“Two asked me to, one tried to kill me, and the final I had a mental breakdown,” I say.

Rick looked at me curiously, but I guess he decided it best to keep his mouth closed.

“In three days, there's gonna be a supply run. You’ll be joining it with a few of our fellow citizens. That alright?”

I nod.

“Can I go too?” Carl asks hopefully.

“No,” Rick says sternly, “You’ll be farming with me.”

Carl frowns deeply, “But I’m sick of farming, Dad! I want to actually do something. You aren’t a damn farmer, you’re a cop.”

“Not now, Carl. That was before. I’m not a cop anymore. We’re keeping the group alive, don’t you see that? You’re farming and that’s... ” Rick trails off, staring up with a distant look in his gaze. He takes a deep and shaky breath, putting his hand over his forehead and looking down. “Not now,” he mumbles, breathing deeply. I furrow my brows, staring at the man cautiously, “Rick?” I ask softly, slowly standing to my feet and walking towards him.

“Dammit,” he curses in a whisper, “Not now!”

Carl looks at his father with both frustration and concern. “(Y/N), leave him be,” he says as he walks forward and grabs my wrist, pulling me away. I turn to look at the boy, giving him a concerned glance before looking down at my trapped wrist. “(Y/N),” Carl says in warning, “Just leave him be. He’s not mentally stable,” he warns, worry swimming within his orbs. Was the worry for me or his father?

I remain silent, observing the trembling man who has his face in his hands. I look back at Carl, removing my wrist from his grasp, “And neither am I.”

I ignore Carl’s warnings, slowly approaching Rick and tenderly placing my hand on his arm. “Rick?” I ask. His head whips up, his eyes glazed over and tears swimming within his eyes. He looks broken, as if he was a shattered porceilen doll, the broken ceramic never to be fixed due to the missing pieces and the many shards which had been lost. His lip trembles and his voice quivers, his breaths coming out at a fast and ragged pace. “Lori?” he asks.

I look at him with confusion. Carl, now standing beside me, has his arms crossed. Carl’s eyes are stone-cold and his nose is scrunched ever-so-slightly. “Who? I’m (Y/N). And this is your son, Carl,” I gesture to Carl beside me whose eyes are stone-cold. “Are you okay?” I ask.

“You’re not Lori? Where is she?” he asks. Anger suddenly fills his eyes as he shouts at me. “Did you do something to her? Where is she? What did you do to Lori!?”

“(Y/N), you need to back away from him!” Carl exclaims, grabbing my wrist again just as I tug it away.

I maintain direct eye contact, hoping that he sees it as an offer of humanity rather than a challenge. “Rick, you need to calm down. You’re having a mental breakdown,” I say calmly, putting my hands in front of my body to show him I won’t hurt him and moving them along to the slow pace of my voice.  
“I don’t know you. Give her back! What did you do to her?” Rick shouts angrily, tears streaming down his face at his pained voice as he grabs me by the shirt. “Where is she!?”

“Dad!” Carl shouts, grabbing his father from his shoulder in an attempt to pry him off of me. I remain calm in Rick’s grasp, still never-breaking eye contact and keeping a calm expression plastered to my face. I understand what he is going through right now and I understand what he needs. The mind is an extremely powerful force when toyed with, especially if the strings of the heart are not tuned. Rick’s heart was out of tune and the shifting gears in his brain no longer churned. All sanity that once resided within him moments earlier had completely dissipated into the thinness of the air, replaced with desperation and insanity for the woman known as Lori, the person I assume was his wife. He had lost her, and now his mind is paying for it.

“Rick, I didn’t hurt Lori.”

“Liar!” he shouts as he stumbles back and crashes to the ground, falling upon Carl who managed to remove his father from my body. “Go away! You’re dead! Stop screwing with my mind!” he shouts, drawing a gun from his holster and unsteadily aiming it above, his finger upon the trigger. The loud shot of a gun echoes throughout the room as my ears begin to ring.  
“Dad!” Carl shouts, trying to gain his father’s attention. By now, the shouting coming from the cell had attracted people from the prison. A male who I assumed to be Korean and a dark-skinned woman with a katana appear at the door, watching with worry as the scene unfolds. Rick shoots at the ceiling a few more times, indecipherable cries and shouts coming from his mouth.

“Rick!” the female shouts from outside, “You need to stop! You’re scaring everyone in the prison!” Her attempts are futile though. Rick whips around and glares at me, aiming the gun towards my head. My eyes widen and I hold my breath, incapable of moving due to the shock and fear that has overtaken my body, rendering me immobile in the most crucial of situations. Is this where I die? At the hands of a longing male who lost his sanity? Is this finally the end? Will my suffering be put at rest? Will all the guilt I had bottled up for years finally be freed? Perhaps this is karma coming to avenge all those whom I had killed.

I make no motion to move. I refuse to allow my eyes to blink. Instead, I simply straighten my posture, willing for Death’s cold grip to finally grasp me in his hand as he drains away my vibrant person until it becomes nothing but the shell of a soul. I await to be reaped.

I am incapable of movement. I cannot feel my legs nor my hands. All I can feel is relentless fear and pain. Even if I could, I make no move to escape. This is the end of my journey, and it is an end well fit for a killer like me.

Bang! The trigger had been pulled, the sound echoing along the walls and rooms of the prison, reaching every pair of ears each individual has. All goes quiet. Nothing sounds but the loud clank of metal and the ringing in each person’s ears. The bullet, painted the color of bronze-gold, shoots itself out of the chamber heading straight towards my brain at a speed of which is immeasurable. It spins round and round within the crisply tense room, the resistance of air slowing it down further as it nears. But the air resistance is not enough to stop such a powerful force, for nothing can stop it from not being dangerous. That's the deadliness of a bullet; it cannot be deterred from its path. There are no other roads for it to take other than the one it is on, and currently, I was the obstacle in its way.

It moves too fast for me to tell where in the spatial plain it is, and that is when I conclude it will be my death. I had given up all hope of living through the bullet wound, or I did until I fell upon my side. I release a small gasp of surprise as I fall to the ground, the first thing to hit the hard concrete floor being my skull as it emits a loud thump to echo around the room. Nobody moves and nobody speaks; there is merely the simplicity of silence filling the atmosphere. They stare at my fallen being as my blood begins to trickle.

I fight the dizziness threatening to consume me as I sit up, refusing to give in to the sleep that desperately calls out my name. I attempt to stand, doubling over slightly from the headache my fall had caused. I can feel the warm trail of blood running from my scalp down to my forehead as it clots thickly in my hair, making it knotted and sticky. Tenderly, I run two fingers along the area of injury, wincing at the contact. From what I can tell, I need stitches, but my bag had been confiscated as I was put into the cell.

I look towards Rick, immediately regretting it as I see him being restrained by the two adults that now stand inside of the cell. Is it bad that I actually feel guilt? Tears stream down his face as he shouts in vein, dropping his gun as the two adults escort him out. I can hear his agonized screams and his tortured shouts from down the hall, my heart lurching at every cry that rips itself from his throat. I look down, collapsing onto one of the five bench-tables as I put my head in my hands in an attempt to push away the bile in my throat to relieve the nausea.

“Are you okay?” Carl asks, leaning down beside me.

I release a small grunt, stupidly putting two fingers up to my wound again and releasing a small hiss of pain.  
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I say, standing up as I regain my senses. “It’s probably just gonna need a few stitches. Dammit,” I say, “can I have my bag back? I kinda need it to fix this.”

“We have a doctor. I could go get him if you like,” Carl says, looking at me with hidden concern sealed in his eyes, “I-I mean,” he starts, looking at me in panic as if he offended me, “I’m sure you can handle it yourself! I’m sure you’re perfectly capable and all! But wouldn’t you like someone more professional to do it?”

“Personally, I don’t really care who does it. Although, I don't know about you, but I have the slight hunch that your father wouldn't be very happy if your doctor helped some suspicious stranger like me. Therefore, I'm good. I'll just do it myself,” I say, searching through my bag which he had just handed me. “He seems like a good leader--your father, I mean. Sure, he’s firm, but sometimes that’s what you need to stay alive.”

Carl stayed silent and looked at me for a few moments before speaking under his breath, “He’s not much of a leader anymore,” Carl says as he looks down.

I furrow my brows and cock my head to the side, my hair cascading further down my shoulders. “What do you mean?” I ask. Carl stiffened, clenching his jaw as his lips turned down into a frown and his eyes hardened to a steely look. I immediately regretted my prodding, feeling dread consume me as I watched his stature change in the blink of an eye. He looked mad. He looked dread-filled. He looked upset. He looked pained. Yet, behind all those motions, something else lurked within the depths of his eyes, swimming in his blue pools. It was fear.

That's the thing about eyes. No matter how hard you tried, you can't conceal your emotions as long as you have them. Despite your smile, your words, and your passion, one can easily tear all that down with one glimpse into the eyes. They are the doors to the soul, opening the gates of your subconscious and your emotions for all to see as if you are cut open wide with a knife and showcased for the world to see. Of course, that's only if you know how to read them. Thankfully for me, reading the eyes and emotions of others is one of the things I do best, being so intuned with my own.

Since I know firsthand on how the strings of the heart play, it's easy for me to manipulate my own emotions--somewhat. I can control the way I act and conceal what I feel inside, but I have no control as to how I internally feel. I'm just really good at hiding it. Carl, on the other hand, needed some work. His emotions were extremely evident (again, only if you know how to read them), and he didn't quite seem like he was trying to hide them. He expressed his agitation and aggravation towards his father quite clearly and he showed all the signs that appear with certain emotions, so it wasn't as if he were purposely attempting to hide them. There was only one emotion that he was masking behind that badass facade he seemed to try and maintain. That emotion was fear.

“I’d rather not talk about it,” he says, his tone laced with spite. I knew his anger wasn’t funneled towards me, but it still slightly stung hearing him talk to me that way. He avoids eye contact as he looks off to the side and out a barred window, his hands in his pockets as he fiddles.

“That’s okay,” I say, my voice soft as I looked at him, “I understand if it’s personal.”

Carl’s eyes meet mine, flashing from pain to gratitude as he stares into my eyes. “Thank you,” he whispers, a small and genuine smile adorning his freckled face--a smile which I return back.

Silence envelops between us for a few moments, thickly coating the air as we stare at one another, allowing the ambience of the prison reach our ears. I didn't know why we stood there, merely gazing at one another. All I knew was that it was rather nice. I smiled at him softly before looking down, fiddling with my ring. He continues to stare at me, his expression bland and monotone. I look back up, gazing up at him through my lashes and quirking my right eyebrow questioningly. He shakes his head in response, looking to the side again with a small, unnoticeable smile plastered to his face.

“I'll go get our doctor,” he says. And with that, he leaves, disappearing from my line of sight into the cold, vast unknown within the prison walls.


	7. Chapter 7

I wince as I feel the stinging sensation of rubbing alcohol pressed against my wound.

“Shit,” I hiss quietly, my face scrunching up slightly in pain. The prison’s doctor, who I have come to know as Hershel, was tending to my cranium and cleaning up the wound to ensure it does not become infected. I’ve been through a lot of painful shit--a lot more than I can recall in a single sitting--and despite all of it, the pain of cleaning an injury still gets to me. Stitches are another one of my downfalls, which--lucky for me (note the sarcasm)--is exactly what I needed due to the fall I had taken. Not only does the pain of having my skin literally sewn back together with a needle agonize me, but also the mere image sends shivers down my spine. I don’t have a fear of needles, yet I’m still scared. I can withstand shots and endure bullet wounds, but the simplistic thought of stitching myself whole again causes me to cringe. I utterly hate it.

Thankfully, the stitches I will be receiving are on my head and not a meatier place such as a thigh or upper arm, which would have far more blood spewing and far more skin to sew. Since those wounds tend to be deep because there is more skin, that also means more pain and more stitches due to the hefty amount of skin that must be sewn together.  
“There, all done. Are you ready for the stitches?” Hershel asks.

I blink nonchalantly at him and sigh, “Only if I have to be,” I respond. He sends me a sympathetic smile, as if he were able to apologize for the torture he’s about to cause. I witness in slight horror as he picks up a sewing needle from out of his first aid kit and delicately threads a string through it, holding it up close to his eye so he could do it perfectly. He parts my hair so he can gain full access to the wound, pinching the ends of my sliced open skin and pulling them together, stretching out my skin in a way that only causes more shivers to crawl down my back. My assumption is that it was a visible shiver seeing as to now Hershel is apologizing.

Carefully, he pierces my skin with the needle and connects the two ends together with the thread, doing so over and over again until he reaches the other end of the injury, cutting the thread off by biting it with his teeth. I can feel the tension in the thread as he begins to tug at it, causing the two ends of skin to pull together and meet once more. I can literally feel my skin being stretched. Oh, how I hate this.

“There you go,” Hershel says, rising slowly to his feet--or should I say foot? He only have one leg. As per usual, I am curious as to how it got that way, but I determine it as too personal of a question for a random stranger to ask, so I keep my mouth shut, muttering a small thank you instead.

“Now remember, (Y/N), I want you to see me again next week so I can check on the progress of your wound. Alright?”

I give him a small nod, reaching my hand up to my scalp and running my fingers gently along the stitches, remaining extra tentative to prevent damaging the sensitive area. I ensure to thank him once more before he leaves the room, locking the door behind him and leaving me in my lonesome.

With a sigh, I release a yawn, placing my head in my hands. What have I gotten myself into? It was stupid of me to believe that I could just easily integrate into this society. From what I could tell, these were happy people, just extremely protective. Of course, that doesn’t mean that I won’t be accepted, but rather I’ll be a misfit from the outside world with no friends. I know that where I am is a safe and happy place, for I can easily tell by the joyous giggles of two young girls from outside the cell and further within the prison. A place which is monstrous would never have such sounds as ambience. Unless, perhaps, it is corrupted from within. Although, I doubt that that is the case.

The prison doesn’t give me those negative and evil-like vibes. I don’t sense tyranny or manipulation within its depths--not like I did with Woodbury. However, despite this place being serene and joyous, something about it rubbed me the wrong way. It wasn’t the place itself, but rather its future, as if something bad was soon going to happen to it. Although, that’s probably just my paranoia speaking. It’s given me false vibes before, so now wouldn’t be any different. Thus, I decide to swallow the bile that rises in my throat from my intuition and push away my negative thoughts to the back of my mind, similar as to how I do with all the other negative or pessimistic ideas that my thoughts form.

My mother always told me to trust my instinct, yet it is something I doubt immensely. Despite all the times I have proven that I should have followed my gut, I still fail to do that very same task. It’s kicked me in the ass countless times, but I fear that I will make a fool of myself by doing the wrong thing. That is why I never follow it. This leads me to where I am now: my instinct telling me one thing but my mind telling me another. As always, I choose to follow my mind. I just hope that for once I made the right choice. I don’t know how much more guilt I can take before it consumes my entire being and completely strips me away from who I am.<

______________________

“Alright, Sweetheart,” Daryl says with a crossbow slung over his shoulder as he slides a key into the cell’s lock, “It’s been three days, so you're free to go. Our people are just about to head out so gather your shit and get a move on.”

I give him a curt nod, standing up from my sitting position upon the floor and stretching my arms over my head. I reached downward, grabbing my navy blue messenger bag and slinging it over my shoulder as I walk towards the door.

I hesitate before I leave, looking behind me and biting my lip as I determine whether or not to ask him about possibly having some kind of gun or knife--anything really, seeing as to how without one I'll be as good as dead out there. When I first arrived, I was stripped of all my belongings, leaving me tense and vulnerable. I still don't have the majority of them. They raided my bag and took the food and water I had stashed in it, in addition to all the weapons I carried on me. All that was left were a few band aids, some pads (which I always made sure to have enough of in fear that one day I'll run out), and my journal. It would probably be smarter to leave the bag behind, seeing as to how it would probably only get in my way during the run, but I didn't want to risk the chance of someone finding it and snooping inside, finding my journal and reading it. Thus, I would have to take the bag with me.

In addition, I can't simply go on a run without any objects to defend myself with--I'd die. I understand that they want to be cautious about me (hell, I would too), but at the same time they'll be putting my life in danger. It's not as if I was going to kill them; that'd be plain stupidity. If an individual were to turn against this group, there'd be no chance of victory for them, seeing as to how they'd be so outnumbered. I'm no exception.

“Hey,” Daryl said, spite dripping in his voice, “Are you going to stand there all day or are you going to get your damn ass out of the cell and go on the run? If you ain't gonna move, then I'll just leave you locked up here."

Evidently, this ‘Daryl’ was a force to be reckoned with. On the exterior, he seemed cold to the bone--a defensive, yet offensive, individual who doesn't take shit from anyone. That much was clear just by the look in his eyes and the tone of his voice (along with the words he had said). He laid all his emotions and thoughts on the table, clear for all to see and hear. Yet, there was still something about him, as if he were repressing something within his mind, using it to fuel him forward. I couldn't quite put my finger on it--a very rare situation, indeed.  
I continue to stand still, my eyes gazing into his for a few moments as they narrow slightly in contemplation.  
“No,” I said, stepping forward, “I'm on my way now.”

Facing away from him and looking out the cell, I begin to walk, my arm brushing against Daryl’s as I pass, only to be yanked by my wrist as a warm hand wrapped itself around it, pulling me back. I release a slight yelp of surprise, whipping my head around to gaze at Daryl, his face mere inches from mine.. I look down at my entrapped limb as he tightens his grip, his nails digging into my skin and causing five pinching sensations to surge through my wrist. I look back up, meeting Daryl’s steel gaze, which was covered slightly by his dark bangs. He moved his face closer to mine, so close that I was able to feel his warm breath on my skin, giving an uncomfortable tickling sensation upon my face.

Quietly, he murmured deeply, “And if you so much as look at them in the wrong way, I will slit your throat and watch as it gurgles in your esophagus, slowly bleeding you out to death on the stone cold floor. I don't give a flying horse shit what Rick or Carl or Hershel says ‘bout you; you're already on my bad side, so don't screw up. You don't have no room for mistakes.”  
I kept my lips pursed, maintaining eye contact with the crossbow archer as I bit my tongue, holding back a snarky remark that I desperately wished I could say. Narrowing my eyes at him, I held his gaze, yanking my arm back towards my person. His mouth transformed into a snarl, the corners of his lips turned down and his upper lip raised, revealing his array of teeth. I clenched my jaw tightly.

“Then I guess I just won't ‘screw up’. Now take me where I need to be taken,” I growled.

He growled back at me. “Fine,” he spat, stepping in front of me, “follow me. And try not to get lost like you probably always do.”

I rolled my eyes. Me? Lost? How dare he think so lowly of me? I glared daggers into his back as he walked, picturing his being falling to the floor as blood oozed from the dagger wounds I implemented into him. He occasionally glanced back at me to ensure I was still there and had not wandered off. It was evident to me that Daryl and I weren't going to get along if I stayed. Of course, I didn't mind. He seemed like a dick anyway, and there was no way in hell that I would even make the slightest attempt to befriend some arrogant, redneck douchebag like him.

I huffed behind him, crossing my arms over my chest as I turned my head to the side, looking out the windows of the prison and gazing at the outside world. The first thing that caught my eye was the group of people clustered around two vehicles, a navy Honda car and a teal Chevy truck, all gathered at the gated front entrance of the prison. From what I could see, there were four people surrounding the vehicles, but they were too far away for me to make out their features. That must be the group I was going to be going on a run with.

I altered my gaze to the right, observing a rather extensive farm area for growing crops and breeding animals. In the farm, there were a few people working, most of them on the outer areas of the farm. There was one individual, however, who I could make out--for his person was quite apparent, even from a distance (although he wasn't as far as the other crop-tenders). Immediately, I knew who I was staring at, the iconic dark brown sheriff’s hat giving it away. A small smile made its way up to my lips as I observed him, watching as he dug into the fertile soil, plowing it with a makeshift wooden hoe and digging up the dirt for more crops. His hat shadowed his face, making his expression indecipherable, so instead of observing his face, I watched his swift movements as he raised the hoe into the air before bringing it back down.

We made it to the outside of the prison, walking down the pathway towards the two vehicles at the entryway, but I still kept my gaze focused on the farms--particularly Carl. He lifted his head to where the sun could finally reach his face and from the distance, I could see the sweat glistening on his forehead, a bit of dirt smudges resting on his freckled cheeks. He leaned against the hoe, as if he were taking a moment of rest, and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand before turning to fixate his eyes upon me. He raised his hand, moving it back and forth in the air as a gesture of waving to me. With a small smile, I lifted my hand as well, waving back.

Picking up his hoe, he started to walk over to us, carefully stepping around the crops so as to not damage them. Before he could reach us though, he turned his head around, seeing his father approaching him who said words that were inaudible to me due to the distance. They talked momentarily, Rick and Carl both looking at us for a second before turning back to their conversation. A few short moments passed, and Carl turned his head back as his father walked away, sending me a small frown as he returned back to plowing the crops. I furrowed my brow and cocked my head, only to have him shake his in response, dismissing the problem. I nodded.

“Stop flirtin’ with Carl and start walking,” Daryl said with a roll of his eyes.

“We weren't flirting,” I said defensively, “we were simply talking.”

“I don't know if you know this, Sweetheart, but talking requires words, not starin’ at one another and makin’ facial expressions. And whatever you were doin’, stop doin’ it. It's annoying and stupid.”

I sucked my teeth in an attempt to calm myself as I frowned deeply, pursing my lips. Daryl was sincerely getting on my nerves. He glanced back at me, a smirk gracing his features.  
Soon enough, we reached the people and the vehicle. Now being capable of performing a proper inspection of their persons, I allowed my eyes to wander up and down the four people. The first female was black, having dark brown eyes, almost looking black, and dark brown hair in the style of dreadlocks with a dark, faded purple cloth wrapped around her forehead and beneath her hair. She had a long katana slung on her back, the hilt made of white leather. Next, there was another female, this one with silky chestnut brown hair that reached down to her neck. She had light green eyes and pale skin, in addition to probably some of the most beautiful cheekbones I had ever seen.. There was also a third female. She had gray hair in a short cut with a style that almost looked like she had woken up with a well-maintained bed-head. She was a petite woman, with bluish-grayish eyes and a noticeable collarbone. Then finally, being the only male, was a muscular, dark-skinned individual. He had a beanie upon his head, making it impossible to see his hair. He held a hatchet in his right hand and was the only one facing away from us, making his eye color impossible to see as well.

Daryl cleared his throat, causing all four individuals to turn their heads and look at us and, as expected, their eyes immediately fell upon me. Confusion clouded their eyes as well as shock.  
“This,” Daryl said, gesturing to me with his hand, “is (Y/N). Rick said she’ll be joinin’ you on the run. It’s her test of abilities and whether or not we’ll keep her or whatever. Have fun,” and with that, he walked away. I turned my head to look at him as he left, my mouth slightly agape for his carelessness. I gulped in nervousness, fiddling with the ring on my finger as I looked slightly to the left to glance at Carl in a plea for help. Apparently, he had been watching the entirety of the exchange. He sent me a smile and two thumbs up before doing a spinning motion with his finger, indicating to me to turn around and talk. Mentally, I cursed in my head, scowling at him for leaving me to endure a cringe-inducing introductory endeavor such as this one. Thus, putting on my bravest face, I spun back around to meet the eyes of the four people staring at me.

We stood in silence at first, staring at each other as though it were a contest of silence. Awkwardness permeated the air in our quietness as we stared. Eventually, however, the girl with the brown hair and green eyes stepped forward, extending her hand out towards me. “Hi,” she said, a country accent laced in her voice, “I'm Maggie.” She offered me the sincerity of a smile, kindness and genuity concealed in her eyes. Wearily, I eyed her hand, gazing back up at her before slowly extending my own and grasping hers. She gave it a firm shake. “It's nice to meet you,” she said, “I hope we can be friends.”

I smiled softly. I had not heard the word ‘friend’ for a long, long while. The idea of making one (well--another since I guess technically I was Carl’s friend?) brought a grin to my face. “I hope so too,” I replayed, flashing her a close-mouth smile. We stood there for a few more moments awkwardly before she gestured behind her. “These are our friends. That's Tyreese,” she said, gesturing to the male with the beanie. He stepped forward, offering his hand just as Maggie did in addition to a large smile. “Hi,” he said. He was burly and intimidating, but once I glimpsed into his eyes I could immediately tell that he was nothing but a big softie at heart. I chuckled, “Hi Tyreese. Nice beanie,” I said playfully. His grin only grew. “Why thank you, (Y/N),” he chortled as he stepped back.

“Next, we have Carol,” she said, pointing to the petite woman with grey hair. She sent me a curt nod, her voice softly-spoken “Welcome to the prison,” she said. “What do you think of it so far?”

“I'm not really sure. It seems like a great place. From what I can tell everyone here is really nice, especially for granting some stranger like me hospitality, even though I was locked in a cell,” I said It took me a moment to realize what I had said, my eyes widening in realization, “Although I totally understand why you did!” I said hurriedly as I waved my hands in front of me defensively, “I get it that you guys don't want me loose in the prison and all.”

Carol laughed. “Calm down, (Y/N). We know what you mean,” she said, seeming less tense than before and more accustomed to the idea of--well--myself.

Maggie took the lead again, “And finally, we have Michonne,” she said, gesturing to the final member. I extended my hand, indicating that I wanted to shake hers. She narrowed her eyes at me, giving me a curt nod with her arms crossed over her chest. It was quite evident that she was skeptical. Awkwardly, I retracted my arm.

“So,” I began, “You're Michonne? Carl told me that he really liked you because you always bring him back comics,” I said, adding a small chuckle at the end. “He said that?” She asked, quirking a brow. I nodded in response.

She huffed, uncrossing her arms and rolling her eyes, a playful smile gracing her lips. “So much for my tough act, huh?” She said. I smiled, “sorry for tearing down your facade,” I said jokingly with a roll of the eyes.

“Nah, you're fine.” She outstretched her hand, this time her being the one to initiate introductions instead of me. I gripped her hand firmly and gave it a nice shake.

“So,” I said, bouncing on the balls of my feet, “When do we leave?” I ask, shifting the bag on my shoulder.

Maggie grinned. “Right now.”


	8. Chapter 8

“Alright,” Michonne said, laying out a map of the warehouse we were about to raid upon the hood of the car, “Right now, we’re here.” She pointed at a location on the map which showed one of the many entrances inside the large warehouse. “From what we have scoped out over the passed couple of days, only half the place has been raided. The other half is overrun. The goal of this run is to clear out as much as we can of the other half of the warehouse and grab as many supplies as we can carry. Understand?” We all nodded, Michonne giving a curt one in response to our own, signaling it was time to start. 

Just as she was about to knock on the door, a thought clicked in my mind; I didn’t have a weapon! I had forgotten to ask for my knife and gun back when I was released from the cell, and now I’m left with nothing to fend myself with. I cleared my throat awkwardly, “Hey guys?” I asked, scratching the back of my neck, “Do any of you have a weapon I can borrow? I was never given mine back,” I finished, trailing off. The small group of people looked at one another skeptically, as if all sharing a conjoined thought as to whether or not they should give the ability to kill to a stranger.

“Well it’s not like we were expecting you to go in without one ,” Maggie said with a shrug, pulling out a bowie knife from a holster attached to her belt and handing it to me. I smiled gratefully, my heart swelling from the trust she had already put in me. “Thank you, Maggie,” I said, turning the knife over in my hands. It was a simple knife--nowhere near as complex as my ordinary one which I etched with all kinds of engravings in the grip. It was light in my hands, making it easier to control and faster to maneuver. 

Michonne banged on the glass and a mere few seconds later, a blurry face appeared behind the small window upon the door in addition to moaning. What started out as one face and one voice eventually grew into multiple until there were so many that it was impossible to distinguish one from another. 

“What’s the plan on killing them to get inside? That’s way too many to barge into blindly,” said Tyreese.

“We could break the glass of the window and start killing that way?” Carol suggested. I scrunched my nose at the plan but decided to stay quiet. Thankfully, Maggie voiced my thoughts anyway. 

“It’d be hard to gain a proper kill that way with such a small space for so many walkers. We could try and lure them away to a different room, though,” she said. 

“How would we do that if all other rooms are just like this one?” asked Michonne.

“Not what I meant. We lure the ones in this room to a different door somewhere else and while they are distracted at that door, people enter through this door and take them in from behind."

“It’d still be hard to do that with so many walkers,” argued Tyreese.

At this point, I began to zone out the conversation, deciding to keep my mouth shut rather than speak and risk judgement. However, after a few minutes of debating, I did finally decide to use my voice and express my idea.

“I have an idea,” I said. All heads turned towards me. “Why don’t we just open this door and let a few out at a time? We let out--I don’t know--four or five walkers? Shut the door to prevent more, kill the ones released, then let more out again? It could work if we have the strength to keep the door closed.”

Everyone entered into a moment of thought before slowly nodding their heads in agreement. “That’ll work,” said Michonne, “Tyreese and I can keep the door shut and you guys can kill. Ready?” said Michonne. I smirked, looking down at the knife in my hand and running my finger over the blade. I hadn’t held a knife in a few days--making it feel weird to be holding one again, especially since it wasn’t even my knife. But, as weird as it felt, I was glad to be holding one again. It made me feel safer and more in control. I hated not having important things like that out of my grasp seeing as to how my life depends on it (not to mention I have developed a sentimental connection to my own knife). Cracking my neck, I gripped the knife firmly, raising it into the air and preparing to stab some heads. 

“Ready,” I said. 

They opened the door, letting out three zombies and then shutting the door--or trying to at least. Three more were able to escape before they shut the door again, digging their feet into the cement ground to hold themselves in place from the force being exerted upon the opposite side of the door. I grabbed the walker nearest to me, which just so happened to be the walker trying to bite me, by the front of his tattered blue shirt, pulling him closer and stabbing my knife into the temple of his skull, pulling it back out quickly and causing a splutter of blood. I released my grip on his shirt, allowing the dead weight to fall to the ground. Thank you gravity!

I looked to my side, noticing Maggie struggling with a particularly gnarly looking zombie. She had missed the skull and accidentally stabbed at the walker’s neck and now her knife was stuck. It took me a moment to realize another walker was approaching her from her left side, mere inches away from the flesh of her arm.

“Maggie!” I shouted, causing her to turn her head and see the walker beside her. She cursed under her breath, twisting herself and the walker at a forty-five degree angle so that she was no longer in the range of the walker trying to attack her, giving her the opportunity to use the deadhead that her knife was stuck in as a shield. Carol stepped up from behind the walker and stabbed it in the head as I stabbed the one she was battling with, taking her out of danger. 

She huffed, taking in a deep breath as she tightened her grip on the knife and forcefully kicked the walker, tearing her knife free from its neck. “That wasn’t so bad was it?” she laughed breathlessly, elbowing my shoulder. I quirked a brow, a small smile displayed on my face, “Whatever helps your confidence, Maggie,” I said with a playful roll of the eyes. I opened my mouth to speak again, but before any words came out, the door was opened again, causing my attention to drift back towards the deadheads approaching. 

We continued this form of clearing out the deadheads for a long while until eventually we killed them all, allowing us to enter the room of the warehouse. Tyreese was the first to step inside, followed by Carol, Michonne, me, and Maggie. The room was a large square, shelves upon shelves filling the room. They weren’t all stocked--perhaps only a fourth--but regardless, it was still a major raid seeing as to how nowadays the majority of places were completely empty. I smiled slightly, excitement filling me at the thought of being a useful resource for the people of the prison, being one of the five people sent on a successful run. 

Michonne let out a small laugh as she looked at the supplies of food. “Let’s split up and cover more ground,” Carol said, already unzipping her bag and filling it with the stocks on the shelves. We all murmured in agreement, taking different paths to different places. After splitting up, not much else happened. It was simply me scouring different rooms for different supplies. The majority of my bag was filled with canned food from a storage room I entered. Due to the vast array of supplies, my assumption was that this place was once a camp of survivors. Obviously, something went wrong and they all turned, causing their utopia of survival to fall prey to the cruelties of this new world. But, one man’s loss is another man’s gain.  
It wasn’t just food in my bag, though. Along the way, I raided a few places that seemed to serve as bedrooms, grabbing a couple of books and shoving them in my bag for later reading. Along the way, I did come across a few stray deadheads, but never did any concern arise. 

Eventually, I found myself back into the room we started, spotting the rest of the group already there. “Hey,” I said, walking up to them and placing my two bags on the ground. “Find anything good?,” I asked, cocking my head to the side. Michonne’s eyes light up as she sends a nod, “Yeah! We did pretty good. Food, water, medicine--I’d say we are ready to head back. There’s still some stuff here but we can just return and finish raiding it at a later date,” she says zipping up the bag she was sifting through and hoisting it onto her back as she walked out the door.  
We placed our bags in the trunk and piled into the two cars, me taking the backseat of where Maggie and Michonne were. 

The majority of the ride I sat in silence, staring out the window and reminiscing of my family and friends before I lost them. A small sad smile was plastered to my face as I remembered Winnie and Cory, the last two people in my life that mattered before they were cruelly ripped away from me in the harshness of this new world. I release a quiet sigh, blinking the tears from my eyes as I fixate my gaze downward and at my hands resting in my lap. I was almost scared to let more people into my heart in fear that I’ll lose them too.

However, as scary as that thought was--there was still something even scarier to me: the fact that I had even thought such thoughts. How cold of a world must we live in to be afraid of even making a friend? How cold of a world must we live in to where it is literally a matter of life or death by just simply spotting another individual? How sick is it that the person you once smiled at every morning when grabbing your coffee has turned into a cold-blooded killer? How sick is it that the person who once taught you how to read is now a walking corpse trying to eat you? How sick is it that in this world nothing good ever happens anymore? 

I hated these thoughts. I hated viewing the world so negatively. But how could I not after what I have seen and done? How could anyone not be afraid of themselves anymore? That face I see when I look in the mirror isn’t me anymore. Deep down within me, I know that behind the knotted hair, the bags under my eyes, and the dirt smudged on my face, there is still a living human. I know that part of me is still in there; I’m just afraid to let it out. I’m afraid to release that happy side of me again because I don’t want it stripped away again. 

But I’ve found a place now. Not some ordinary, dimly-lit cabin in the middle of the woods secluded from society. Not some destroyed house on a street no one remembers the name of. Not some ransacked store in the middle of what used to be a shopping center. It was an actual place! And while I may have found it while venturing alone, it’s still a place. It’s a place of people and hope. It’s a place where actual human beings live, guarded within fences keeping away the dead that roam the land and the living that walk on it. It’s a place where people who have been exactly what I have been through live. It’s a place where people who experience these same thoughts I think reside. And maybe--just maybe--it’s a place that I can finally call home.


	9. Chapter 9

“I can’t believe we managed to gain so much from one warehouse,” Maggie said, sifting through some of the bags, “And we got medicine! This is a huge gain for us! Maybe something in here can even cure the disease!” she exclaimed excitedly. I furrowed my brows. Disease? I was never informed of such a situation being existent at the prison. A part of me, the side begging for survival, nagged at me saying it was a bad idea to continue living within the prison walls since there was an epidemic rampaging within its gates. The other side of me—the human side—told me to dismiss the matter, saying that finding a genuine sanctuary like this was such a rarity nowadays that it’s worth the risk. This is going to have to be something I look into further before making any rash decisions. I could ask Carl about it later.

Once we returned from the run and stepped out of the car, I immediately   
went to the trunk to help aid my newly-made companions with the workload of taking in the supplies. I picked up the bag I had filled during the run and walked over to Maggie to ask her what to do with them. Just as I was about to tap her shoulder to request directions on where to leave the bags, she turned around, jumping slightly from being startled at my unexpected presence. “Oh!” she said, noticing my confusion, “Don’t worry about the stuff. We can handle it. Thanks for your help with that walker earlier,” she said, flashing me a smile as I handed her the bags. “It was my pleasure!” I responded, giddy that my help was appreciated. I knew that what I had done wasn’t much in the grand scheme, but it was a start. I want to make as much of a difference and pull as much of my weight as possible in this place; I want to earn my keep.

With a happy sigh, I left the cars, roaming into the area of the gated fields. The grass was quite long, tickling the part of my ankles that weren’t covered by my socks. The wisps brushed against my legs as they blew softly in the wind, each blade performing its individual dance, swaying in the soft music of ambience that the breeze created. I looked through the holes of the gate, gazing into the beyond and the surrounding forest for a few moments. I moved my hands up to my hair to remove the ponytail that it was in, allowing my locks to blow freely in the soft wind. A small smile found its way up to my face and for the first time in a long time, I felt serenity overcome my being.   
By this time, the day was nearing its end, causing long shadows to cast themselves upon the world. I watched my own, making movements solely to watch the shadow mimic it. I had always been fascinated with the phenomenon of shadows as I child; I guess the fascination carried on into my older years--yet another odd quirk of mine. I sat down on the bench behind me, lifting my head from the ground and returning my gaze to the beyond, watching the clouds form shapes and the sky change colors before slowly closing my eyes.  
“It’s nice, isn’t it?”

I jumped, startled at the sudden voice in front of me as my head snapped up and I instinctively reached for my holster. Upon finding no grip, I remembered I was no longer in the wild but instead safe behind a fence. It’s hard to turn off the instincts you’ve relied upon nonstop for years--there was no way I would ever lower my guard as much as it once was. After being what I’ve been through, there may never even be a time where I can lower my guard again.   
The voice from in front me laughed, causing me to glare.

“Carl!” I exclaimed, slapping his arm, “That wasn’t funny! You scared the shit out of me!”

“If it wasn’t funny, then why are you smiling?” he responded teasingly, poking my cheek as he chuckled. I swatted his hand away and narrowed my eyes, causing him to release another chuckle. 

“How was the run?” he asked, sitting down on the table beside me, planting his bottom on the table portion and propping his feet up on the seats.

My eyes lit up. “It was fantastic!” I exclaimed, clapping my hands together in joy. He looked taken aback by my sudden burst of enthusiasm and he leaned away slightly. 

“Oops,” I said, averting my gaze to the side, “Got a little over-excited. I do that sometimes.”

“It’s fine,” Carl responds with a dismissive wave of his hands, “What happened?”

“Well, first, I had a plan on how to get inside the warehouse we were raiding which was filled with deadheads, and it worked. I know that sounds kind of stupid to get excited over, but it was kind of like my way of showing I can contribute, you know?”

Carl nodded. “I also helped Maggie fight a deadhead that was about to bite her, which helped demonstrate what I could do physically. And, to top it all off, the raid was a complete success! It had so much stuff! There was food, water, ammo, and even medicine. Maggie was really excited about that part. She said something about a disease and curing it,” I said. Through the entirety of my talking, Carl kept his eyes upon me, nodding his head along to my words indicating he was listening. However, once I mentioned the disease, he tensed up.

“Do you know anything about that by the way?” I asked skeptically, “I was never informed about some rampaging illness,” I said, quirking my brow.

“Well,” Carl began awkwardly, “When I invited you to come, the disease was just starting. But now that you’ve been here a few days, it’s grown. You already met Hershel, he’s trying to cure it but natural remedies can only do so much. It started with my friend Patrick who caught it from a walker,” a frown made its way to Carl’s face and he looked away. “He died two days before we met. But during that time we didn’t know it was contagious. That’s one of the reasons we’re skeptical about letting you be a part of the prison: because we’re weak. The sick people are in a different cell block and are quarantined though, so it shouldn’t be possible for people to catch it.”  
I let his words seep in. 

“I understand if you want to leave now. You’re in danger staying in the place where you are supposed to live,” he shrugged. 

I pursed my lips, directing my gaze to my hands as I pondered. It was stupid of me to believe that I actually found a place completely safe. Places like that don’t exist anymore. Every camp and every sanctuary has its flaws and negativities, and this prison was no different. Yet I couldn't blame Carl—he was simply trying to be nice. Every day, we live in a world of death. Every moment is filled with dangers and every breath we take gives us a risk of dying. How does being exposed to a sickness make that any different? 

“I’m not leaving,” I firmly stated, fixating my eyes back to his stunning crystal blue ones. “I finally found a place with good people. I’m not letting that go so easily. I’d rather die knowing I’m doing good than survive with no reason to live.”

My answer seemed to take an effect on Carl, causing him to furrow his brows and tilt his head. “You mean you’d risk your life for strangers you don’t even know?”  
I nod. “What I’ve witnessed here is humanity. I haven’t seen something like that for years. This place might even be the salvation of my own,” I said, sending him a small smile. “From what I can tell, this place isn’t just a community. It’s a family. Look around!” I gesture to our surroundings, indicating to the groups of people scattered about. “Everyone here has a role. Everyone here has a cause to live. I want that too.”

I returned my gaze to the horizon. Silence enveloped between us for a few moments as we stared. Together we sat, quietness being our language, gazing out beyond the gates at the forest. The wind blew softly, causing the leaves to fall from their branches in a small flurry. In the distance, shouts and cries were heard, but I ignored them, blocking them out of the personal bubble I created, allowing only myself and Carl within it. For once, I felt at peace. I took in a deep breath, standing to my feet and causing Carl to give me a questioning look.  
“I’m gonna go head in. It’s getting cold,” I said, flashing him a smile. I lifted my hand up in the air and waved, turning my back to him as I walked to the prison. At first, I didn’t think he would follow me, but once I heard the soft trampling of grass, I knew he was.

“Are you hungry?” he asked. “Dinner should be served soon.”

I pondered his question for a moment. I didn’t have breakfast this morning nor lunch since I was on a run, making the last time I had eaten been last night. I wasn’t exactly hungry, but I knew it would be in my best interest to put some food in my stomach seeing as to how I’d grow weak without the nutrition food provides.  
“Would Rick be okay with that? Having me eating around your people if I’m supposed to stay locked up?”

Carl scoffed, “Who cares what he says? He’s an asshole anyway. He can’t even lead us anymore.”

“I just don’t want to step over any boundaries and risk my chance of staying here,” I said, “Sorry, Carl.”

He frowned as we entered the prison, walking with me to the solitary cell I sleep in. 

“Do you know when I can get the rest of my stuff back by the way?” I asked as I opened the cell door, walking to my bag and sifting through it. “You know, like my gun and my knife?”

Carl shook his head. “Probably when you are allowed to have your own cell with the rest of us--which should be soon if you keep assisting us as much as you are. You’ve been on two successful runs and have helped with cleaning this place up so I’m sure it won’t be too long,” he shrugged.

I nodded my head. “Alright. Thanks,” I said, finally finding what I was looking for. I pulled my journal and a pencil from my bag, sitting down at one of the benches and opening it up to a new page. Carl scrunched his nose in scrutiny. “Do you really write in that thing every day?” he asked. 

“Yep,” I responded, writing the date in the top right corner of the page. 

“What do you even write about anyway?” he asked, shoving his hands in his pockets as he walked over to me, looking at the journal but I slammed it shut before he could have a proper glimpse.

“Just...stuff,” I say, “You know, things like what I do and what I feel. It’s nothing big really,” I said with a dismissive wave of my hand, “It just helps me keep my sanity.”

Deep down, I knew the words I said were far from the truth. This journal I kept with me is much more than nothing. It housed my fears and experiences. It housed my losses, insecurities, emotions, thoughts, and joys--it housed everything and anything. It held my secrets and it held my sins. Within this leather-bound stack of hand-written papers was not words, but a person. That person was me. If one were to read a page, my life would be set out before him/her as if I were a body on an autopsy table, ready to be dissected and observed. Never would I allow someone to have so much power over me. Thus, never would I allow anyone to read it.

“Anyway,” I said, clearing my throat, “See you tomorrow?”

He nodded, walking towards the cell door.

“See you tomorrow.”


	10. Chapter 10

Four days had passed since I went on that run and my role at the prison was still static. My reputation with the people, however, was rising. They were beginning to notice and accept me as a part of their society, seeing me as just another individual aiding the prison. Over the few days, I mainly assisted in the cooking of food with Carol. She and I had grown closer because of it, and honestly, she was even becoming something similar to a mother-figure for me, teaching me little tricks and keeping an eye out for my safety. Of course, she could never replace the mother I lost, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t be my new mother-figure. She treated me as if I were her own, even telling me the tragic tale of her own child. Truthfully, the sharing of loss for kin simply strengthened our mother-like-daughter-like bond. 

Carol wasn’t the only one I was growing close with, though. There was also Maggie, who was currently my favorite female to talk to. The day after we went on the run, she told me about her husband, Glenn--the black-haired Korean male who helped subdue Rick the day I first arrived. I was upset when I found out I couldn’t meet him because he was sick, but it did give me something to look forward to when he was cured. He sounded nice, and he seemed to treat her well which made me happy. Whenever the time for food came around, I would always eitehr sit myself next to her or next to Carl, who had became my new best friend in this cruel world. Each day he and I seemed to grow closer, our own individual quirks slowly unraveling themselves in front of one another. 

Not only was he my closest friend, but he was also the one who found me, saving me from the complete loss of humanity that would have engulfed my soul had I not stumbled upon him and this place. For that, I did not only feel a connection with him as a friendship, but a great gratitude for his kindness. He chose to save me when he easily could have shot me between my eyes and raided my corpse for supplies. Yet, he didn’t. Instead, he invited me to stay at his home. I often wonder why he made that decision--why he chose to save me rather than kill me. Did he do it out of the genuity of his heart? Was he looking for something in return? What was it about me that made me special enough to save? Ever since we met, I’ve wanted to ask him these questions, but for some reason I was afraid to. 

I really liked Carl. We clicked ever since the moment we met. Most times when seeing a new face I tend to tense up, coming off as formal and serious with a hint of awkwardness. With him, none of those traits emerged when we talked. Instead, I felt free. I felt as though I could spill all the details of my life out of my mouth and lay them out on the table for him to see. Now, while I did not do that, I still had the urge to. I wanted to tell him everything. I wanted to say the things I had done. I wanted to tell the thoughts I had. Yet I didn’t, deciding to keep my lips unmoving. I decided to keep my hand writing

Right now, however, I’m out of time to do that. These thoughts I felt I expressed upon a page the previous night. Right now, I was changing into a dark muscle t-shirt and denim blue jeans, tying my hair back into a ponytail in preparation for the oncoming day.

Today, as requested by Rick, I was to be working in the fields, tending to the crops they were growing and the animals they were raising. Internally, I was repulsed by having to do such a job. All day, my schedule was written out to be working in the hot sun with nothing but a hoe to till soil—the very same muddy soil I was to be submerged in all day. This meant not only will I be sweating profusely with a constant desperate thirst for water, but I’d become dirty. Generally, I wouldn’t have a problem with it seeing as to how for the past four years that’s all my life has consisted of, but when you finally are able to clean yourself for the first time in three months, the first thing you want to do is not get right back in the mud again. 

The only thing that I was looking forward to doing with this job is spending time with Carl. If he wasn’t assigned to be farming today, it would be utter hell having to plow the fields alone. Thus, I grabbed my converse, laced up my shoes, and waited for Carl to arrive with the key to unlock my cell. It didn’t take him long to arrive once I sat down—perhaps two minutes maximum—and when I heard the click of a lock, I bookmarked the page on my journal, shut it, and closed the small lock on it that kept it shut, taking the small key that unlocked it and shoving it in my pocket. The entry I was writing wasn’t much of an important one. It was merely telling of my past few days at the prison.

Carl watched me as I put the journal back in my bag, his eyes following it curiously until it made its way inside. It was quite evident that he was desperate to read the things inside, and desperate he will remain.

“You ready?” I asked, standing up and stretching for a moment, extending my arms over my head as I arched my back, hearing my bones crack. Carl’s eyes darted back up to mine as I quirked a brow. “It’s not happening, Grimes,” I said, knowing what he wanted to ask. He let out an exasperated sigh and sent me a pout, causing me to smile and shake my head with a roll of the eyes. 

“Fine,” he said, opening the door wider, “M’lady.” I put a hand over my heart dramatically, pretending to be flattered by his gesture.

“Carl Grimes, what a gentlemen you are!” I said playfully, walking through the entry. He sent me a playful smirk, “only for you, (Y/L/N).” I laughed breathily, an opened-mouth smile adorning my face at our actions before beckoning for us to move with a flick of my hand. “C’mon. We don’t want to be late,” I said, grabbing his wrist before quickly walking down the hall, knowing the way out by now since I had walked this way multiple times since the time I arrived. It was the only path I knew by heart since my access to places in the prison was limited. 

“It's not even possible to be late,” Carl said from behind me as I dragged him along with a jog.  
“I know,” I said, “but the sooner we get to work, the better I look and the better a chance I have of being allowed to stay.”

Carl groaned behind me, evidently not wanting to start farming. Admittedly, neither did I, but there was no way I was going to give off the impression of being a slacker when it came to doing more grueling jobs. As we neared the farm, I slowed down, no longer dragging Carl along behind me. We came to a stop and I looked around, unsure of where exactly to go in the large farming area. The farm was divided into sections based upon certain crops; there was a sect for tomatoes, carrots, lettuce, etc. In the far corner of the field, there was a penn, but I couldn’t see what was in it due to the distance and height of the fence it had. Next to us was a small three-walled hut, the absence of the fourth wall serving as a door to the place where the farming instruments such as hoes and other farming materials such as seeds were stored.

“I’m assuming that’s where we start?” I say, lacing my voice with a questioning tone. Carl nods. I released my grip on his wrist, which I just realized i was still holding, causing me to avoid eye contact in embarrassment. Carl didn’t seem to notice, nor mind, that I was holding his wrist until I let it go, causing his eyes to wander down to our once-connected hands. He furrowed his brows, looking at me momentarily before turning his head away and looking into the distance. I gave him a questioning look of which he did not see and noticed that he had the slightest of a frown on his face, causing me to wonder what was bothering him. Although, I didn’t ask. Taking a half-step forward into the hut, I snatched two hoes from the wall they were leaning against, tapping Carl’s shoulder and handing him one. He flashed me a smile of gratitude.

“Thank you, M’lady,” he said, wiggling his brows and calling me the same nickname he had earlier this morning.

“Why you are quite welcome, good sir,” I responded, causing us both to laugh.

“Now!” I exclaimed, clapping my hands together, “where do we start and how do you use a hoe?” I ask, raising the hoe up to my eye-level and inspecting it curiously. I’ve never farmed before in my life because I never had a need to, and now that I was about to, I figured it important to understand how.

“Uh,” Carl started, scratching the back of his head “can I demonstrate for you?” he asked, “I don’t exactly know how to explain it.” 

I nodded my head, following him towards the wheat crops and watching as he began to till the earth, paying close attention to his stance, movements, and grasping of the hoe. His demonstration was awkward—and one could easily tell that he felt such a way as well. 

“Do you want to start off easy? You know—start off with strawberries and tomatoes and stuff and I can use the hoe as you get the hang of that?” Carl said. I nodded. “Sounds like a plan!”

I walked over to the hut again, grabbing a bag of strawberry seeds and a few other supplies before walking over to the strawberry garden. I kneeled down upon my knees in the soil, first tending to the crops already growing, examining them to ensure they were healthy and properly growing. There was one plant in particular that needed evident assistance. Grabbing a thin stick of sanded-down wood and a wire, I stuck the wood in the soil, making sure it was properly grounded before taking the stalk of the growing strawberry vine and wrapping it around the stick then tying it there with the wire. I did with all the fairly young plants that were growing, accomplishing the task around five minutes later before beginning to actually plant strawberry seeds in the proper places.

I dug small holes in the designated areas of the soil, carefully placing a few seeds in each hole before covering them back up with the dirt, giving them water. I stood again, dusting the dirt of my knees and hands. Now that I was at the end of the line of strawberry crops, I began the final task I had to perform by picking the grown strawberries and placing them in baskets in addition to picking the bad strawberries and discarding them. There was a fair amount of ripe strawberries that I had picked, almost making the basket entirely full.   
I looked in the direction of Carl, noticing he was still working away at tilling the dirt to ensure it was rich. I walked towards him, unsure of what to do next and what to do with the basket of strawberries, he was working efficiently, never once removing his eyes from his work. His brows were furrowed, as if he were in deep thought whilst he worked, and his eyes were squinted in the bright beading sun. He had the sleeves of his flannels rolled up, and I could see the sweat glistening on his forehead.

I walked toward him, stopping when I was behind him as I watched him work, the basket of strawberries still in my hand. After a few moments of watching him be oblivious to my presence—an easily-noticeable presence since there were two shadows—I tapped his shoulder. Carl turned around, looking down at the basket of strawberries in my hand and then to the garden of them, flickering his gaze back to mine with a fairly impressed look on his face. 

“You’re fast!,” he said, “not bad (Y/L/N). Not bad at all.”

I flashed him a smile in addition to a thumbs up. “Thanks Grimes,” I said, reaching my free hand up, removing his sheriff’s hat, and ruffling his hair, laughing at the glare he sent me and at how stupid he looked with a bed-head. He grabbed his hat from my hands and placed it back on his head “(Y/N),” he whined, “Why’d you have to do that?” He huffed. 

I shrugged. “By the way,” I began, raising the basket, “where do I put these?”

Carl indicated towards an area near the front entrance of the prison. “Normally we place them over there to then be taken inside to the kitchen, but you can just leave them by the hut for now if you like.”

“Alrighty,” I said, walking to the hut, placing the basket down, and returning to Carl. “Need help tilling?” I asked. Carl looked around, examining the field of wheat that had yet to be plowed. “If you want,” he shrugged, “there’s still a lot of work. You sure you can handle it?” He asked teasingly with a smirk. 

I raised my brows, crossing my arms over my chest and leaning back slightly. “I can handle anything. If I can kill a deadhead, I can plow land. How hard could it be?”

“If you say so,” Carl said. I walked to a different part of the medium-sized wheat field after grabbing a hoe, trying to look confident for the task I was about to engage in despite having absolutely no idea how to do the job I volunteered for. I clutched the hoe, attempting to till the soil the way Carl had showed me. I knew I was failing terribly, and I could practically feel Carl’s amused gaze burning holes into me at my immense failure. Yet, I still continued to try, placing the hoe in the earth to spread and irrigate the soil but instead doing nothing but digging up dirt.  
“Do you need help?” He laughed. I frowned at my work, too stubborn to agree to assistance. “I got it,” I said, continuing my very same actions and failing just as equally. I huffed. I heard footsteps approaching me but I did not look up from my work. Suddenly, I felt something warm on my hand, causing me to turn my head and see Carl’s hand placed atop mine on the hoe, making my body freeze and my eyes travel up to his. “Let me teach you,” he said, guiding my hand higher up the hoe. His grip tightened, guiding the actions for me.   
The moment of his assistance and presence on my hand did not last long—maybe around fifteen seconds—and when I felt his slightly rough hands leave my skin, a part of me longed for it to return. 

“Try now,” Carl said, gesturing me to do the exact thing he had just done. I tried again, but I failed. Carl laughed. “You’re not very good at this,” he said.  
“Shut up,” I laughed, punching his arm and accidentally smudging dirt on it. “Oops,” I said, sending him a sheepish smile. He looked down at the dirt smudge now on his shirt and his arm, sending me a smirk as he reached down and dipped his fingers into the damp soil. Immediately, I knew what he was doing and my eyes widened, a small yelp releasing itself from my mouth as I quickly ran away. Tragically, I was not quick enough. Carl grabbed me by the arm, turning me around and placing his hand on my cheek. I laughed loudly, letting out a small scream as I flailed in his arms trying to break free. 

“Carl!” I exclaimed, thrashing happily and finally coming loose from his grasp upon me. Once I escaped from his arms, I began to run through the field of crops, carefully stepping around them as I sprinted through the farm. I could hear Carl behind me, shouting my name as he tried to catch me. Alas, I did not know my way around well enough, causing my attempts of avoidance of wheat to be my downfall. Carl caught up to me, knowing his way around far better than I, giving him the ability to grab the back of my shirt and stop me from sprinting.   
“Carl!” I squealed, “let go!” 

“Okay, okay,” he laughed, releasing me. I turned around, a smile larger than life plastered to both my face and Carl’s freckled one. After I caught my breath, I found myself to be fascinated with his freckles, beginning to count them within my mind as he panted. I tilted my head to the side curiously, glad his gaze was directed at the sky rather than at me because I knew he would be wondering what I was doing.

“Have you ever counted how many freckles you have?” I asked randomly. Carl returned his line of sight back to me. “No,” he said, “Why?” 

“Because I was wondering how many you had,” I responded. Carl fell silent. “What?” I said, “It’s not that weird of a question!” I defended. “If that’s what you need to tell yourself to convince yourself that you’re normal, then yes, it is perfectly normal,” said Carl.

I rolled my eyes with a huff. “Leave me and my questions alone,” I said, sticking out my tongue childishly. 

Just as Carl was about to respond, his gaze upon me faltered, flickering to a source located behind me and causing me to turn around. In the short distance, I saw Rick walking towards us, his gun hitting his thigh as he sashayed over in his cowboy boots, the sun highlighting his features. I looked back at Carl, giving him a questioning look in which he responded to with a shrug. 

“(Y/N),” Rick shouted from the distance. He undoubtedly was far more mentally stable in comparison to the day he and I had first met within the cell I was locked in. His walk gave his state of mind and his state of emotion away, laced within his confident walk and grip on his gun holster. 

“I’ve been meaning to talk to you,” he said in his country accent, making direct eye contact with me, never once glancing at his son. I nodded, fully turning to face him, keeping my posture straight and rigid. The suspense I felt within me was slowly building up as every second passed. My silence encouraged him to continue.

“Look,” he started, taking a sigh, licking his lips as he searched for words to say, moistening them from their dry state. “I know you want to stay here at the prison.” My heart dropped. He was kicking me out wasn’t he? A frown etched its way upon my face as my hold on my negative thoughts began to loosen, the rope once tied to their neck snapping into two different strands as the thoughts ran amuck within my mind, causing a flurry of havoc and discord. Fear struck my heart--I could hear the rejection in his tone.

“I need you to understand--there’s a lot of people living here, (Y/N). It’s hard to maintain this place. We need to feed them. We need to clean the cells. We need to ensure order--it’s not an easy task,” I nodded my head, pursing my lips and already preparing my words for a response at his rejection. “There are bad things about adding new members. They use more resources. They don’t always follow the rules. Really, there is no telling of the character they will be.”

I sighed, letting my head drop slightly but still keeping my gaze on him.

“But there’s good things about them too.” My head perked back up. “I’ve considered the option and weighed the good things against the bad things,,” he said, readjusting his stance, “And if I’m right, you bring more good than bad.” 

I tried to hold back the smile I could feel creeping up upon my face. Was he letting me stay? He placed a hand on my shoulder, his eyes showing firm belief . “You’re a good person. It’s a pleasure for me to welcome you to your new home.” 

I couldn’t hold it back anymore. My face erupted into a smile, my teeth shining in the sun. My stomach was doing backflips over and over again, causing butterflies of excitement to flutter into flight, their wings tickling the sides of my insides and causing a feeling of elation, euphoria, and giddiness to overwhelm my entire being. “Thank you so much, Mr. Grimes!” I exclaimed, “I promise you won’t regret this.

He nodded, removing his hand from my shoulder before walking away.

I turned around to look at Carl, seeing the exact smile that was plastered to my face adorning his, causing small dimples to appear in his cheeks as he grinned at me in ecstasy. 

“He let me stay!” I exclaimed, still incapable of withholding the glee from within me. 

“I know!” he said, the excitement evident in his voice as well.   
I shrieked again, doing a small jump before throwing my arms around his neck in cheer as I bounced upon the balls of my feet. His body tensed, but after a few short moments he relaxed into the hug, wrapping his arms around me and hugging tightly.

“I get to stay, Carl,” I murmured, sounding as though I were talking to myself, the only indicator that I wasn’t being the fact that I had used his name. 

“I know,” he murmured back contentedly. We stood there a few more moments, hugging one another in the middle of the fields before finally pulling away, neither of us saying a single word as we stared at each other in comfortable silence, soft smiles on our faces.Carl opened his mouth, about to say a few words before a voice behind me had cut him off.

The voice sounded familiar, causing me to furrow my brows the moment I had heard it. I knew the voice, but I couldn’t quite place who it was even though it was at the tip of my tongue. It had been awhile since I had heard that voice, but it was one that I could never forget until the day I die.

“(Y/N)?” it said. I turned around slowly, my eyes widening as I saw who it was, my stomach dropping and my heart skipping a beat.

“Cory?”


End file.
